


The Words I Hide

by Arcwin, Beta_Jawn



Series: Nodus Tollens [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Accurate PTSD symptoms, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Greg Lestrade, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Sherlock, Blood and Violence, Depression, Eventual Happy Ending, Everything Hurts, Explicit Sexual Content, Flashbacks, Frottage, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Hand Jobs, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, I promise!, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, John Makes Tea, John Needs A Hug, John is a Mess, Letters, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Nightmares, POV First Person, POV John Watson, POV Mycroft Holmes, POV Sherlock Holmes, PTSD John, Pain, Psychosis, Sherlock is a Mess, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-03-22 16:42:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 47,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13768257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcwin/pseuds/Arcwin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beta_Jawn/pseuds/Beta_Jawn
Summary: After the events in the sweets warehouse, John and Sherlock try to make sense of their lives.The third and final (probably?) part of the Nodus Tollens series.If you haven't already, please read parts 1 (Lost) and 2 (Broken) before embarking on this one.Mix of fluff, angst, PTSD, depression, hurt/comfort, some arguments, andfinallysome actual interaction between these two in ways we've all been waiting for!! (hint: it's smut.)NOTE: I am a Clinical Mental Health Counselor, licensed in the state I live in, and I run an intensive, acute treatment program for adults who tend to have pretty severe symptomology and complex trauma histories. The way that I present mental health issues in this story is as accurate as I possibly can. Trauma affects everyone differently, but it has some hallmarks that will be present in this story, including: mood swings, intense anger/irritability, hyper-reactivity, sudden panic and anxiety symptoms, and some personality changes. This is very common in trauma, and unfortunately we will see these symptoms exemplified in our dear Doctor Watson. He will get better, but give him time. It's gonna be rough for a while!4/26 GO SEE THE NEW ART IN CH. 12!





	1. The Words I Hide

**Author's Note:**

> Beta_Jawn, my dear, my muse. Thank you <3
> 
> I will try to include trigger warnings if needed at the beginning of every chapter. If I don't mention something, please feel free to comment about it and let me know so I can update it for future readers. I know that reading about intense emotions/trauma can be very triggering to people. I thank you for your trust in me, and please take breaks/take care of yourself if it gets to be too much. I would never fault anyone for taking space from something that is upsetting! Thank you for your support and readership. <3
> 
> Feel free to message me on Tumblr (@Arcwin1)!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to set the tone...

_ The words I hide _

_ burn deep in the darkest place I dare not look. _

_ They threaten to consume me, _

_ to unclose my pain and _

_ expose my fear. _

_ The words I hide, _

_ I hide like secrets, like lies. _

_ Knowing if I speak them, flowing, _

_ sliding over my tongue, no longer _

_ stuck behind my teeth-- _

_ If I hear them escape, _

_ to hang, _

_ crystalline, in the black air between us _

_ it will be my undoing. _

_ The words I hide _

_ I cannot bear to know. _

_ Will you save me from their truth _

_...if I beg? _


	2. Hospital: John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added a new poem in before this chapter (ch.1). Sorry for any confusion--it came to me today suddenly while thinking about this fic. Please check it out :)

I fly past Mycroft into the waiting area of the emergency room, skidding to a halt at the receptionist desk. “Sherlock Holmes, please,” I demand, bouncing, agitated with adrenaline, on my toes. I need to see him, need to know he’s okay. I need to talk with the doctor, ensure they did what they should, make sure they took care of him the way I would…

The woman stares at me, her eyes wide. “Sir, are you...are you okay?”

“What...what d’you...I need to see Sherlock Holmes. He was just brought here by paramedics, he was nearly dead, I need to see him now _please_ ,” I plead breathlessly. She continues staring at me, mouth agape. What is wrong?

Suddenly, Mycroft is beside me, a soft grip on my elbow. “John,” he begins quietly, lips close to my ear. “You forget your appearance. Perhaps you ought to go home and get washed up before returning. I’ll keep you informed of his status--”

I whirl on him, my presence expanding with my rage. “Mycroft Holmes, you can’t possibly be suggesting _I_ ** _leave_** _Sherlock_ _right_ _now_. Even _you_ are smarter than _that_.”

He purses his lips, suppressing a scowl at my implied insult. “I can assure you that he is in good care, John.”

**“LIKE THAT BLOODY MATTERS, MYCROFT!”**

The waiting room silences immediately at my outburst, heads turning slowly towards us. Mycroft’s eyes narrow in frustration as he leans closer to me, willing some semblance of privacy to our conversation and pointedly ignoring our audience. “Doctor Watson, I can have you escorted out of here and brought right back to the hospital you came from if it’s necessary. I hope I won’t need to go so far, though, and that you can remember your place in all of this.”

“My-- _my place in all of this_?! And what the _fuck_ does that mean?”

A quick, irritated sigh escapes his lips before he looks away from me in an attempt to break the tension. I could throttle him for it, but I don’t need to be arrested right now. _I need to see Sherlock,_ my mantra at the moment, repeats itself over and over in my head, coinciding with the pulse that’s throbbing in my ears.

_I need to see Sherlock I need to see Sherlock I need to see Sherlock I need to see Sherlock I need--_

“John, I appreciate everything you’ve done to help my brother, but at this time your services are not necessary,” Mycroft states as evenly as he can--a mask. His fist is tight on the handle of his umbrella, however--tension. Anger. Fear. Hurt. Pain. His knuckles are white. He’s just as scared as I am, and apparently it’s causing him to be an idiot if he thinks I’m leaving right now.

“I am not going anywhere,” I reply firmly. “You can threaten me all you like, but I am not leaving. Not now, now that I know...now that I’ve seen...I’m not leaving.” A repetition, a grasp at some confidence, a reach for some stability in my rapidly deteriorating emotional state. “I can’t,” I choke out, swallowing around the stone in my throat. My eyes sting and my face hurts so much, and _I need to see Sherlock._ Once I see him...once I can touch him and know he’s breathing again, he’s got a pulse...my eyes slide shut as I try to force the recent events from my memory, focusing instead on what he was saying before... _all this_.

_I love you, John. I’m real, I promise, please believe me…_

_I love you, John._

**_I love you, John._ **

_God, I just need to see him_ . I keep Mycroft’s gaze, willing him to understand as I feel the prickle of emotion in my eyes threatening to undo me, to give me away. I need him to feel even an _ounce_ of what I feel in this moment. To know the pain I have, know the relief and anxiety and excitement and anger and hurt, the millions of emotions that are swirling and colliding in my brain. They encompass my entire being and throb with my pulse, filling my cells until I feel like I might burst.

Something behind his eyes softens, barely. His head dips slightly, his cheeks relax, and suddenly the exhaustion he’s been fighting is evident. A deeper sigh from him this time, and he reaches up to run his thumb and index finger along the sides of his nose. “So be it. While you’re here you ought to have your injuries treated. You have at least two broken ribs and there’s a high likelihood of internal trauma and possible bleeding. And...you’re in no state to see Sherlock, nor him you. If this is the way he sees you when he wakes, he’ll be devastated and angry that you neglected to seek medical care. I am sure that you, being a doctor, understand the immediacy of treating such acute--”

“Shut it, Mycroft. I’ll see a doctor, just stop lecturing me. I’m not your little brother,” I interrupt, tone snarky.

“He refuses to listen to my lectures too,” Mycroft replies with a smirk. “Perhaps you two really are meant for each other after all.”

The world pauses as I blink at his words, hanging in the air between us. He stares back, his expression both fond and _resigned_. I swallow, confident that the entire hospital hears it, and finally bring myself to give a curt, firm nod.

 _Perhaps we_ **_are_ ** _meant for each other._

Reality resumes around us and I approach the receptionist’s desk again, forcing a polite smile. “I would like to see a doctor, please. As you can see, I had an…,” I pause, glancing at Mycroft.

“Doctor Watson here had an accident and has multiple injuries that need to be treated. You know who I am, I take it?” Mycroft asks, a false smile gracing his lips. The woman nods vigorously. “He will be seen immediately, then. Expenses can be placed under my account.”

“Yes, sir. Right away. Doctor Watson, this way please.”

* * *

Several hours, tests, blood draws, bandages, lectures, prescriptions, and moments of frustration later, I’m clean, treated, and discharged from acute care. My phone dings the moment I step out into the waiting area.

**> >Incoming Message**

**> >Mycroft Holmes: He’s been moved to ICU. Second floor, restricted access. I’ve placed your name on the approved visitor list. It will be some time before he’s conscious.**

A hopeful whisper creeps around in my thoughts: _he’s alive..._

Taking the stairs two at a time feels like molasses, yet my broken body fights against moving any faster. I hate it, hate how much pain I’m in and how much it pales in comparison to what Sherlock’s just survived.

_He’s alive...he’s alive..._

I reach the restricted area and smack the call button with the palm of my hand, leaning down to glance through the tiny window at the security guard on the other side. “John Watson, here to see Sherlock Holmes. I’m...I’m on the list.” The guard nods as a buzzing sound indicates the lock release and I snatch open the door, narrowly avoiding slamming into Mycroft. I teeter backwards, nearly losing my balance as I dance around him.

“Ah, you look much better, John,” he comments, eyebrows raised. “I trust you received care to your liking…?”

As I glance around, searching for any indication of Sherlock’s location and finding absolutely nothing, I can’t help but huff in annoyance. “Where is he?”

“He’s asleep, John. As you know, he lost a significant amount of blood, requiring a few transfusions. They were able to stabilize him, remove the bullet, and close his wound; however, he had to be placed into a temporary, medically-induced coma to ensure his body recovers from the shock of such trauma. He nearly died,” Mycroft finishes, expression becoming pale and serious.

My gaze snaps back to him. “I _know_ he nearly died, Mycroft. _I saved his life_.” My words are biting, venomous and angry. “ _Again_ , I might add.”

He takes a deep, steadying breath, closing his eyes as he replies. “Yes, and I am deeply indebted to you for it. Thank you, John. For this and every time you’ve saved Sherlock’s life. It’s happened more times than either of us can count, and I’m sure Sherlock would say it’s happened in more ways than the obvious.”

Usually I would expect some superficiality from him, but this is genuine, a sad smile gracing his lips. His eyes are rimmed in red, bloodshot and puffy, and it’s suddenly clear he’s been _crying_.

Mycroft Holmes was _crying_. About _Sherlock_.

My rage evaporates, leaving me feeling small and ashamed. I swallow and nod, fighting back against the swell of emotion in my chest and finding it a lost cause. Clearing my throat, I manage a, “ ‘welcome,” before I have to turn away and cough, gingerly scrubbing at my swollen and bruised face while wiping away the few tears that escaped.

“Can I sit in his room?” I ask softly, embarrassment creeping up and tinting my cheeks.

Mycroft considers my request and nods. “Room 2.”

As I enter his room, I am logically aware that the sight I receive won’t be pleasant, yet my mental preparation is nothing compared to the intensity of seeing Sherlock _like this_.

He’s laying still, statuesque, and has an ungodly amount of wires and tubes snaking around his body, entering his perfect skin in numerous, awful places, causing purple-black bruises to mottle his usually pale complexion. His lips are parted as his breath whistles quietly in and out, shallow yet rhythmic. His face is covered in an auburn-brown, patchy beard, and his dark curls are greasy, matted to his head. A grey pallor covers his skin, settling in dark blotches under his eyes, and his prominent cheekbones are sharper than usual with malnourishment.

Seeing him still, quiet, and unwell makes me immediately nauseous. The vibrancy, the animation and manic energy he exudes, seems nearly extinguished in this state. I force my feet to carry me to a visitor chair next to his bed and collapse into it, immediately grateful to be near him despite the circumstances. His long, graceful fingers catch my attention as they rest by his side, and I’m overwhelmed with the need to touch them, hold them with my own and let him know somehow that I’m here. _I’m here, Sherlock._

My heart pounding, I reach for him until my body freezes with a single thought: _should I?_

Immediately, I hear a resounding chorus of _no, definitely not_ and _what are you thinking?_ and _don’t be an idiot_ and _of course not, you two don’t_ **_do_ ** _that_ and every other version of _no!_ my brain can come up with.

And then quietly, his words to me earlier this morning fill my head, drowning my self doubt.

_I love you, John._

_I love you._

_LOVE._

A deep, shuddering breath later and I close the gap, sliding my hand over his and hooking my fingers around to rest under his palm. While I’m sure it’s reflexive, I feel his fingers tighten reassuringly around mine, holding them in place. I stroke the top of his wrist with my thumb and lean back in my chair, determined to wait for him to wake. His chest rises and falls, reminding me of the tide, and I find myself being lulled to sleep by it, the hint of a smile settling involuntarily on my face.

_He’s alive._

_Sherlock is alive._


	3. Mind Palace: Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is written from Sherlock's POV while he's still in his medically induced coma following his near-death experience in the warehouse. It coincides, at the end, with the end of John's POV in the previous chapter.
> 
>  
> 
> **This is a set of nightmares. Nothing that happens here is real, and all of it is horrible.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings:  
> Nightmares  
> Graphic Blood/violence/injury  
> Death (it's **not real** , I promise you. It's a nightmare.)  
> General anguish and emotional suffering

My pulse is still pounding in my ears, breath panting noisily through my open mouth while I lean against the hallway wall. The night air was chilly, but instead of being a paralytic, it felt refreshing as it burned inside my lungs. We were chasing the cab that I was sure had the serial killer in it; well, I _say_ sure. In actuality I doubted, no--hoped, in fact--that he wouldn’t be so dim-witted. He proved me right in more ways than one.

John Watson’s limp is psychosomatic. I’m positive. He kept pace with me, feet slapping the asphalt as we ran, hand brushing mine while we crowded through narrow alleyways.

It was _exhilarating._

Correction: _he_ is exhilarating.

In the restaurant, he asked me questions about _relationships_. Specifically, my involvement in any. I was honest, yet I fear I may have pushed his interest away. I suppose I might have been unsure--I usually am uncomfortable when dealing with... _others_.

Yet, I saw the way he licked his lips as his eyes roved over my face, settling on my mouth. His pupils nearly eclipsed the deep blue of his irises. His jugular was pulsing, staccato, under the thin skin of his throat. I couldn’t have imagined that. It _happened_ , all those telltale signs of arousal.

The lactic acid settles in my muscles, making them ache from such exertion. The adrenaline, however, continues to make my heart race, and I feel an intense desire to look again towards my companion. I want to see if he’s recreating his expression from the restaurant. I need to know whether he is still interested in me after such _theatrics_.

The rational side of my brain tells me he isn’t. Never would be. _No one ever is_. How could I be such an idiot, hoping that perhaps this solid, angry, gorgeous man standing here would ever be interested in _me?_

However...a tiny voice in my head whispers so quietly I have to hold my own breath to hear it.

_What if he is?_

_He might be._

_You saw how he looked at you._

_He was pleased to hear you were unattached._

_Like him._

_What if…_

I let the breath go with a huff, then close my eyes to steady my trembling knees. I want to look. Is he looking at me? Does he want me like I want him? My pulse continues to throb in my ears, my heart pounding, and I summon the courage to turn towards him and open my eyes.

He’s... **he’s** **gone**. _What?_ No, he _can’t_ be. He was just standing here, mere moments ago. I could hear him breathing, I could feel his warmth next to me. His laughter was rumbling the wall, making my back tingle with our closeness. **He was here!** _He was--_

The scene vanishes with a swirl of smoke, my vision going black before a new one takes its place.

I’m gasping, choking, sputtering. My assailant had his thumb pressed on my windpipe for far too long. I can’t seem to get a full breath without shuddering pain wrenching through my throat. I’ll surely be bruised in the span of an hour, his grip was so tight.

I need help, I can’t...I just _can’t_ seem to breathe…

 _“John!”_ I hear myself croak as if standing on the other side of the room. “ _John!”_

Why isn’t he answering me? He was just shouting on the other side of the door, “No, I’m Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone because no one can compete with my **_massive intellect_** **!** ”

My rageful companion, shouting because I hadn’t let him into the potentially dangerous flat to investigate with me. _Perhaps shouting because he was worried about me?_ I push the thought from my mind--waste of time. Can’t go there right now. He’s not interested, he never was. I was right before, in the hallway during the Pink Lady case. He just didn’t want to be the only bachelor in the flat, that’s all. Was worried I’d out-shag him ( _absurd_ ), or--

 _John!_ I yell again, chastising myself internally for being such an idiot, thinking of all the things I know I shouldn’t. My throat aches, my body feels weak from the lack of oxygen, and my amygdala has started flooding my central nervous system with adrenaline at the lack of any response from him. Where could he be? Did he leave? _Ridiculous_ , John never just _leaves_ me.

 _No, that’s your job._ **_You_ ** _always leave_ **_him_**.

**Shut up.**

**Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up,** **_shut up!_ **

I struggle to my feet and stagger towards the door, unlocking it so I can whip it open. The street is empty outside the flat, no sign of John. _What?_ It doesn’t make any sense. Why would he just leave? He _must_ have heard me gasping for air. Did the acrobat make it out and now John’s chasing him down in the alley? Rubbing my throat with a leather-gloved hand, I lurch out to search for him, hoping he’s okay. It feels like hours of searching every nook and cranny of Chinatown with no sign of him, no response via phone, _nothing_. I collapse on the stoop of Soo Lin Yao’s flat, head in my hands.

_What did I do wrong?_

I blink, and when I lift my head I’m no longer in Chinatown searching for him. I’m standing by the pool where Carl Powers was killed. John’s in front of me, torso strapped full of explosives with a terrified, pleading look in his eyes.

_No no no no no no no no--_

He was talking, Moriarty _stole his voice_ and was using him to speak to me, the _bastard_. He stole John’s voice, _he stole_ **_my John_ ** _from me,_ he’s trying to kill me by killing John and I can’t let him, I just can’t--

John’s standing stock still, staring into my soul. The pain in his gaze is palpable. He doesn’t want to die like this, but he seems resolute to do so if that’s the only option. We’re trapped, _trapped together_. He must be regretting ever letting me borrow his phone at Barts. A single, horrible, life-changing decision that has led us to _this_.

_I caused this._

_I’m killing John Watson._

_It’s my fault._

**_I’m killing him._ **

I blink, and time leaps forward. Moriarty has just walked out the door, having called off the snipers after threatening me. My feet carry me immediately to John before I can stop myself, hands trembling as they roam all over him, yanking and pulling at the explosive vest as quickly as I’m able. It’s not fast enough, and I curse myself for such inadequacy. _Never enough, I’m never enough._ **_I’ll never be enough for him._ **

“Sherlock!” he’s nearly shouting, shocked at the intensity of my fear for him.

“Are you alright?” I demand angrily. I’ll kill Moriarty for this, I’ll kill him for trying to use John to get at me, knowing how important he is to me. It must be transparent--I would do anything for him, and I swallow the self-loathing I have for such an admission. Mycroft would be disappointed in me if he ever knew.

Roughly, I _finally_ remove the parka and vest from him and throw it as far away as I can manage, breath shallow and quick in my own ears while my heart continues to race. I was losing him, and it was _all my fault._ I run to the opposite door, ensuring our safety, and hear him slump to the tiles, breathing ragged and uneven.

I turn back to check on him and…

 _No, not again._ **_No!_ **

He’s gone.

**_Dammit!_ **

I lost him again, _I keep losing_ him, as if...as if he was never mine to begin with.

 _He_ **_wasn’t_ ** _ever yours._

My knees buckle and I collapse, _broken_ , on the floor near the pool, bringing my knees to my chest and wrapping my arms around them while I rock side to side, shudder involuntarily. My chest feels tight with agony as the pit in my stomach grows hot with rage-filled sorrow. _Not mine, John’s not mine, he never was, he never will be, not mine, not mine, not mine…_

The mantra repeats indefinitely, filling every synapse with this eviscerating truth; a white-hot brand marking every cell in my body with the indescribable pain of reality.

_Not mine, not mine, not mine, not mine, not mine…_

“John?!” I shout, and I’m home, in my bed. My limbs feel fuzzy and heavy, my thoughts sluggish. Why am I in the flat? What is wrong with me, why do I feel like this? I blink rapidly, willing my vision and brain to clear, while getting tangled in the sheets and falling off my mattress onto the floor. I stumble upright and throw open my bedroom door, shouting again. “John!”

The flat is **silent** , still. I look around quickly and notice an absence that settles in my core like ice.

_His chair is gone._

I sink to the floor in the hallway, knees suddenly weak and tremulous, and lose myself in a vortex of swirling, terrible emotions.

**_His chair is gone_** _._

_Gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone--_

_Perhaps it was never here to begin with._

I can’t keep doing this.

Come back to me, John, _come back…_

My phone rings next to me and as I answer it, I’m suddenly sitting in the chair at the Dartmoor Lab, watching on the CCTV while John hides in a cage. His voice is breathless, panicked, and though I logically know how important this experiment is, a part of me also knows how very wrong it is. That part of me knows how it’s yet _another_ reason he will _never_ want me like I want him.

 _He can’t._ **It’s impossible.** I am an impossible man with impossible standards and impossible habits and impossible vices and I am absolutely unloveable, unwantable for these reasons. I don’t blame him, really. I know my truth, know how it burns me from the inside and how it halts me in the night when I desire nothing more than to go to his bed to splay my fingers across his bare stomach, relishing in the warm rise and fall of his breath. Feeling him _alive_ beneath me.

So I watch him hide from the beast I’ve created, the monster inside of me that threatens to consume him whole, to shred him to bits. He hides, and _I_ _don’t care_. He _should_ hide.

His voice breaks on a sob, and it jars me to reality. He deserves better, _my John_. He will always deserve better than me, better than this, so I will go to him. _I will rescue him_. As I blink I’m at the cage, listening to him choke and cough on his panic for a moment before I whip back the curtain.

 _It can’t be. It wasn’t real, none of it was real, there’s no monster lurking in the shadows_.

Except there must be, because he’s on the floor, blood pouring from a terrible gash in his throat, his eyes feral while he dies in front of me. I kneel to pull him to me, his blood soaking my clothing and staining my hands and I plead, I beg, I reassure. “ **John, it wasn’t real.** There was no monster, it wasn’t here, it was just me, **it was just me** , it was just…”

_It was just me._

_It was_ **_always_ ** _just me._

The light in his eyes fades and my world is filled with a guttural howl, full of rage and fury and pain and hate.

_It was always just me, John. I did this to you._

**_I’m the monster._ **

My body shakes, wracked with sobs as I hold him, muscles spasming and fingers numb while they clutch at his jacket. There’s a searing white light piercing my brain, collapsing reality around me as I realize I’ve lost him again. I keep doing it, I keep losing him, and every time it’s _my_ _fault_.

A breeze ruffles my hair, flapping it softly against my forehead, and I open my eyes to see the skyline of London in front of me and the street below. I’m on the roof at Bart’s, and I know with the acrid, bitter taste of bile rising in the back of my throat that Moriarty is behind me. He wants me to jump to save them. _To save him_. He knows, he’s always known, and now he’s using John again to try to get me.

 _What if I refuse?_ a terrified, tiny voice asks in the corner of my thoughts, giving into the shameful fear coursing through my body. **No!** I must follow through. He’s worth it, he’s _always_ been worth it. This is the right choice, **I know it is.**

_Right?_

A black taxi pulls up below, and I force myself to the ledge, knowing it’s time.

It’s time for the show.

Except, our roles are switched.

“It’s all true,” John says, voice tight with anger. “You _invented_ Moriarty.”

“What?” I gasp. This isn’t how it goes, this isn’t what happened! **_Dammit_** , I was _there_ , I _know_ how it’s supposed to go. My heart starts racing out of control with panic while my thoughts twist around each other, searching for the truth. This is _wrong_ , isn’t it? He didn’t believe the lies, I know it. He believed in _me,_ he _must_ have. He _always_ believes in me, that’s his job. To _believe_ in _me_. Without John’s faith, I’m _nothing_. Nothing but a clever, lonely junkie in a silly hat without my blogger. “Why are you saying this?” I hear myself ask. _No, this isn’t right, that’s not my line._ **_He’s_ ** _supposed to say that. This isn’t right, it’s not--_

“You’re a fake,” he replies venomously.

“Shut up, the first time we met, the first time we--” I steal his words, arguing with him.

He doesn’t believe me, he’s shaking his head. “You’re not real, Sherlock. Stop this, stop it right now. Let me die here, let me--” Suddenly we’re back in the sweets warehouse, and John’s on his knees, eyes burning into me while he pleads. “Let me die here,” he repeats. “I’m tired of fighting for a life that’s a lie. That isn’t worth it,” he begs, his voice cracking. I blink and now he’s lying on the pavement in front of Barts, black-red blood oozing from the back of his skull in a wide circle. His hair is matted to his broken head, eyes glassy and pupils constricted to pinpoints while he stares up at me. His mouth moves, but no sound erupts. I watch his lips, and realize with a sickening horror what he’s begging of me.

_Let me die here. Please, please...please, Sherlock, please, let me die, let me die…_

I’m cradling him, holding him tightly against me while a million Moriartys surround me, hands reaching to pull me away from him. I shake them off, guarding John with animalistic rage from them. “You won’t take him from me!” I snarl at them. “You can’t have him! Stay away from him, don’t touch him!” I’m shouting, covering him with my coat and spitting at our assaulters. “He’s mine, you see! He’s mine!”

His blood covers us both, ruining my Belstaff, and his skin turns ashen as he dies in my arms over and over while Moriarty whispers in my ear, “You’re not real to him, Sherlock, you never were. Not real, _not real_ , **not real** …”

In an act of desperation I grab John’s hand tightly, bringing it to my lips. He squeezes my fingers in response, thumb stroking the top of my wrist while tears run down his cheeks and his body shudders in my arms.

“Don’t leave me, John. _Please. I can’t bear it._ ”

He flashes a knowing smile, hidden in the corners of his lips. “You can’t bear what, Sherlock?” he whispers, breathless and ending on a grimace.

 _“Life without_ **_you_** _, John Watson.”_

“You don’t have to. _I’m here, Sherlock_.”


	4. Hospital: John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  
> Intubation  
> Gagging  
> Flashbacks  
> Blood  
> Panic Attacks  
> Violence  
> Emotional pain/angst  
> Pining  
> Vague/passive suicidal ideation  
> John is a **serious mess**

“John, wake up,” a familiar baritone commands softly in my ear. A few errant curls brush my cheek, and I flinch involuntarily, skin hypersensitive and ticklish. “John, it’s time…,” the voice continues, so close that it rumbles in my chest. A brief flutter settles in my stomach as I lean forward, chasing the rich tones I know all too well.

“Mmm, time for what?” I murmur, my own voice thick with the disuse that comes from deep slumber. I can feel his breath on my ear, warming the side of my neck and sending tingles up my scalp.

“John, it’s time. Wake up,” he repeats, tone shifting towards irritation for needing to repeat himself. He _hates_ repeating himself.

My lips twitch into a small smile while my eyelids finally relent, rising slowly in the too-bright room. I blink a few times, clearing the haze surrounding the figure in front of me.

_Fuck off._

**_It’s Mycroft_** _._

“John, it’s--,” he starts again, expression grim.

“Time, yeah, I know. You said that. Time for what, exactly?” I cut him off with a snarl. Raking my hands through my hair, I scratch at my scalp with a groan, encountering more than a few tender spots. A jolt of adrenaline surges through me as Moran suddenly appears before me, his tongue teasing, _tasting_ , the end of his blood covered thumb.

 _That’s my blood_.

“They’re removing his life support devices and taking him off sedation. It’s likely he will wake soon. I thought perhaps…,” Mycroft explains. His voice sounds so far away, as if he’s talking through the wall. Is he even still here? My ears feel clogged, like I’m underwater.

Moran is sucking provocatively on his thumb now, a small dribble of blood colored spit slinking lazily down his chin.

 _That’s._ **_My_** _. Blood._

“John?” Mycroft asks. His touch on my shoulder is fire, drawing all of my awareness to the singularity of his contact with me. It burns. It grounds. _The hospital room._ I’m not in the warehouse, I’m at the hospital. I blink again, willing the disturbing vision of my captor to fade, and see _him_.

 _I see_ **_him_** _._

_Sherlock._

I hate him for what he’s done to me.

I love him for what he’s done _for_ me.

I’m drowning, lungs burning and fingers tingling. My chest won’t expand, so I’m gasping and my thoughts are swirling, a million images of him flooding my mind.

_The lab at Barts, hand outstretched to take my mobile._

_The pained, ashamed look on his face when he realized that I’ve spoken words that I thought would be my last._

_His sleepy yawns at the end of a case._

_The narrow-eyed, cold and calculating gaze when he feels attacked and the claws are out._

_His tender touch on my shoulder, breath hot on the back of my neck, while he critiques the blog with a smile in his voice._

_The carefully constructed blank expression when I called him a machine, hiding the pain I knew was there._

_His hand, limp in my own while he lay on the pavement, life bleeding out from his broken head._

_The tear rolling down his cheek while he pleaded, begging me to believe that he’s real._

I shake my head in an effort to retreat from the inevitable emotional onslaught such memories bring and croak, “Yeah, right. Sure, Mycroft. I’ll just--” He nods and strolls out to let the doctors know that we’re ready. I cast another glance at Sherlock, laying immobile on the hospital bed, and feel my heart leap into my throat.  

We’re ready. _I’m_ _ready_.

 _Am I?_ the merest hint of a whisper in my ear. Am I ready to see those icy, green-blue eyes open? To bare my soul to him? Surely he’ll see it all. _He always does_.  All it will take is a few quick looks and he’ll _know_.

 _He loves me,_ a contrary voice reminds.

Right, but...Sherlock doesn’t do _this._ He doesn’t need a broken, pathetic, _ill_ lapdog, pining after him and wishing for more than he’s capable of. He may _love_ me, but once he sees what I’ve become, it’s unlikely he’ll _want me._ How long will he **tolerate me**? Will he send me away with a flick of his hand, dismissive and disappointed?

**I won’t survive it.**

I’m such a fucking idiot, falling in love with _Sherlock Holmes_ , the man who abhors emotion with every fiber of his being. I did this to myself, and I’ll have to deal with the consequences of it once he rejects me, repulsed by my _humanity_. I should have known, should have seen this day coming.

Fine, then. I’m ready. I’m ready for him to leave me again, but this time I won’t suffer for long.

Mycroft returns with the doctor and a few nurses, who immediately descend on Sherlock to start removing the myriad of tubes and wires. I clench my fists at my sides, willing my rage at their intrusion to subside. _Stop touching him!_ I shout internally. _Stop it!_ Squeezing my eyes shut, I take a shaky breath to calm my reflexive shivering.

“Hold his shoulders while I remove the intubation,” the doctor instructs quietly.

The world shatters around me as I open my eyes to see two nurses with their hands holding Sherlock down and the doctor slowly extracting the breathing tube that’s been down his throat.

_No, no, no! Stop touching him!_

Suddenly all I can hear is my heartbeat pounding in my ears. My vision goes blurry, then black, and I reach out to steady myself on the wall, hand slipping clumsily with sweat. My knees buckle, forcing me to slump. I’m vaguely aware of concerned voices, but I wave them off. _Not me, him. Pay attention to him. I’m fine, I’m--_

“Obviously you aren’t, John. Please, take a seat,” Mycroft replies. Was I speaking out loud? I couldn’t hear my own voice, how did he--

My hands reach up to claw at my throat, feeling the tube that was hastily jammed down it being slowly, torturously removed. _It’s not down my throat, it’s down his. This isn’t Afghanistan, it’s London, I’m--_

I feel it slipping, sliding, and gag harshly, hands clutching at my neck. My protests gurgle out of me, begging them to “Stop, please!” I can feel myself thrashing, arms flailing around me while I try to fight them off. It hurts, _it hurts_ and I just want it to end. “Leave me alone!”

“John, no one is hurting you,” Mycroft replies coolly, a million miles away. I hate him, I hate all of them for doing this to me. I hear my own breath, rapid and shallow as it shakes through my nostrils and shudders in my chest. Tears well up in the corners of my eyes before streaming down my cheeks, evidence of my shame.

_Stop looking at me! Stop touching me! I’m fine, leave me alone!_

“No one is--”

I’m down the hallway in seconds, roughly pushing past nurses and visitors while I throw myself into the nearest bathroom and lock the door. My feet carry me back and forth in the tiny room before I collapse, weak, on the unforgiving tile floor. My chest is heaving with thick, painful gasps, constricted by the tension I can’t seem to get rid of. My eyes burn, my throat burns, everything seems to burn despite the cool tiles surrounding me, falling in on me, trapping me in my own terror and I _just can’t breathe!_ I _hate_ it, **_I hate all of it_** , and I finally give in to the sobs that I can feel swelling within me, clawing up and out of my mouth. The first pained sound fills the bathroom and I feel myself falling over the precipice, losing myself completely.

* * *

I hate the clock.

I hate the bloody clock with it’s stupid bloody hands that won’t stop bloody moving and won’t stop bloody telling me how _long_ it’s been since they took Sherlock off bloody sedation.

It’s been two days.

**Two bloody days.**

Why won’t he wake up? What is going on? I don’t understand, he should have woken up by now. His injury was serious, yeah. He lost a lot of blood. But he should have woken up by now and--

And--

He just isn’t.

_“Sitting there staring at me won’t help, you know.”_

“Go away,” I reply as calmly as I can. I may be mental, but I don’t need _him_ here reminding me of it. My fake Sherlock, my fake companion, _he’s back_. It’s bizarre, sitting next to a hospital bed with living, breathing Sherlock, covered in scruff and grime and bruises, while a clear-as-day, flawless hallucination stands above, chiding me. He stares, unblinking, and I feel the surge of my usual annoyance towards him. He won’t leave me, not now, even though I’ve asked. He’s only left me alone when...when I was drugged and beaten. When I had given up completely. When I knew my life was over. That was the only time he abandoned me, and it was probably just from the effects of the drugs rather than my mental state. I sigh, scrubbing my hands over my face and give in to my loneliness and base desire for socialization. “Yeah, but when you wake--”

_“If,” he interrupts abruptly._

I huff, crossing my arms. “ _Really?_ **_If?_** ”

His face impassive, as usual, as he explains, _“John, the likelihood that I’ll wake anytime soon is fairly low. Additionally, the chances that I’ll be unaffected by such a traumatic injury are--”_

That’s it. I don’t have to listen to this. “Shut it, you prat.” I stare at the clock. I missed lunch... again. The clock seems to be speeding forward to spite me. Just like everything else in my life apparently.

The evidence of my madness scowls, lips pursed, before responding with venom in his voice, _“I’m a prat for reminding you, a_ **_doctor_** _, of the severity of my injuries?”_

“You’re a prat for being you,” I counter with a yawn, words expanding awkwardly in my open mouth. He rolls his eyes, petulant.  

Agitated, I turn to look out the window while his rich, controlled baritone fills my head. _“Who’s to say I’m even going to recognize you if I wake, anyway? You know I’m--”_

“Off your tit?”

I can feel the familiar arrogance rolling off him, and _know_ that he’s lengthening his spine and raising his chin ever-so-slightly towards the ceiling as he responds, _“Precisely. Additionally, have you looked at yourself in a mirror in the past month? Not exactly familiar.”_

“What are you on about?” I ask, whipping my head back to stare at him. He regards me, head cocked to the side and eyes narrowed before flicking his head toward the en-suite bathroom.

 _“Take a look,”_ he commands dryly.

I sigh, heaving myself up off the uncomfortable hospital chair. The machines continue beeping melodramatically in the background while I arch my back, hearing my spine crack in several places. I _have_ been sitting for too long, I suppose.

_“Obvious. Mirror.”_

Sherlock, when we were... _together_ , had a habit of predicting (he would say _observing_ ) my thoughts with irritating accuracy. _They’re all over your face, John. I can read you like a book._ I hated it--it felt like an invasion of privacy, a violation of my personal rights in some way--while it simultaneously increased my admiration of his abilities. He was rarely wrong, which proved especially infuriating. Now, though, the Sherlock of my mind doesn’t have to rely on observation to guess at my thoughts, and it tries my patience. However, I’m too tired and annoyed to comment on it today, so I shake my head and leave it be.

As I walk towards the bathroom, stiff from inactivity, my heart starts thudding ominously in my chest. I really _haven’t_ looked at myself in a while. I was so wrapped up in my grief, my pain and depression... I must look awful. My thoughts start spinning, spiraling through all the scenarios, imagining how _broken_ I must look. Broken, and ill, and mental.

I brace myself, squeezing my eyes shut for a moment to breathe.

 _Just do it, Watson,_ I tell myself, ashamed at my hesitance.

The bathroom light is harsh, reflecting off the bright surfaces of the tiled walls and floor, illuminating my face far beyond a level I’m comfortable with. Bruises mottle my jaundiced skin with purple, blue, and yellow discolorations, telling the story of my recent abuses. A patchy, uneven beard and mustache shade my upper lip and jaw, adding to my disheveled appearance. My clothing, ignored until now, hangs at odd angles from the crust of dirt and blood stiffening the fabric. I look _disgusting_.

What will he say when he wakes and sees me like this?

I’m unable to follow the line of thought as there’s a quiet knock at the main door of the room, signalling Greg’s entrance. There’s a heavy pinch of weariness around his eyes, and his jaw is set.

Something’s wrong.

“Greg, hi,” I start, throwing him a false smile. He’s too busy staring at Sherlock, shellshocked, to notice me. I clear my throat and he blinks, startling back to reality while his eyes snap to mine.

“John,” he responds stiffly. “Listen, I...I know it’s not an ideal time, but I’m here to take a statement from you about Moran.”

I feel the blood drain from my face at the name, flashes from a few nights ago filling my thoughts. Briefly, I hear the sound of his fist connecting with my cheek, the overwhelming pain exploding through my bones as I collapse to the filthy floor... _no, that’s not real_. _It’s not_ **_happening now_** _, it_ **_happened_** _. Days ago. It’s done._

“John?” I hear through the fog of dissociation.

I meet his eye briefly before looking towards Sherlock, watching his chest flutter up and down. “A statement? Look, it was self-defense. You can see me, you know what he did to me. He had just shot Sherlock, what was I supposed to do?”

“Right. No, I get that. We aren’t contesting that at all, we just need some descriptors from you. You were the last person to see him aside from Sherlock, and he’s...well…,” the flash of his vague gesture at the hospital bed breaches my peripheral vision briefly. I can’t take my eyes off Sherlock. Not that I want to.

His words settle thickly in my head, lacking meaning until some part of me realizes what he said. It can’t be right, though. There’s no way. He can’t be asking me--

“What was he wearing? Any particular injuries that we should be watching the local A and E’s for, in case he comes in under an assumed name?” Greg presses, walking closer to me with a small, spiral notepad in hand. My gaze slides over to him and the pit in my stomach seems to deepen, gutting me entirely.

“You let him get away.”

Greg frowns, affronted at the accusation. “ _Let him_ …? Now, John, listen,” he placates, hands raised in submission.

“How could you do that?!” I shout, losing control of my barely subdued rage. “How could...I can’t believe this! You’re the bloody police, how could you let this happen? I thought he was dead, I can’t believe--”

At the disturbance the door to the hospital room opens as Mycroft sweeps in, face a carefully constructed mask of apathy as he surveys the scene, undoubtedly reading it perfectly. “John, as you are aware, Sherlock--”

“Of course I’m bloody well _aware_ that Sherlock was **_dying_** , Mycroft Holmes! What about you, eh? I’m a fucking doctor, I had a responsibility, but you? Didn’t you have a team there? Why didn’t you have someone watching the exits!? You must have known he was working with someone, he had help to escape and you all just sat there with your bloody thumbs up your arses watching him while I saved Sherlock’s fucking life!! **Useless** , the lot of you, **_totally and completely useless_** _!_ Sherlock never would have--”

“Sherlock certainly wouldn’t appreciate you losing your temper like this, John,” Mycroft interrupts calmly, reaching out a hand to my forearm.

The world narrows to this single point of contact, vision blacking at the edges and focused, a tunnel, on his soft, manicured fingers touching me. My heart rate skyrockets, blood pounding in my ears as every military instinct in me overrides any conscious thought, hijacking my movements and reacting violently to the intrusion. I snatch his hand away by the wrist, forceful enough to bruise immediately, and twist his arm around behind him before slamming his chest against the nearest wall. He gasps, breath shuddering through him, while I press into his back.

“ _Don’t fucking touch me, Mycroft_ ,” I growl dangerously in his ear, unaware of anything except the pure rage coursing through me, setting my nerves alight with adrenaline.

“John, let him go,” Greg commands, voice low.

“This is his fault, Greg! You know it is! I bet he knew, too, that Sherlock was alive this entire time. He probably made him jump in the first place, knowing how much it would destroy me!” I sound hysterical, tone pitching up drastically while my thoughts spin through the situation, finding every reason to hate the man beneath me at this moment. “You _took_ him from me, you took Sherlock from me, you _bastard_. You _knew_ , didn’t you? Knew what he was to me, knew how much--”

“John, I’m telling you, if you don’t let him go I’m going to have to intervene. _Don’t make me do this_ , just let him go and we can go talk, mate,” Greg pleads. “There’s a perfectly good explanation for all of this…,” he trails off, surely watching me for signs of continued aggression.

Mycroft is wincing at the pain in his arm, keeping himself as still as he can like prey in the sight of a predator. If I push, just a touch more pressure, a twist this way or that, his shoulder will come out of the socket. The allure of causing him to suffer is delicious, calling me to it like a junkie to his next hit. **_I need it_** , I need to feel his body shake beneath my power over him. I want to hear him cry out torturously. Perhaps he might catch a glimpse of the black torment he’s put me...put Sherlock...put _us_ through.

A quick glance to my right reveals my hallucinated companion, face twisted up while he watches my malicious rage at his brother. His eyes are dark, pleading and pained.

This is Mycroft’s fault, too. All of it is his fault. My madness, Sherlock’s near death, our separation. The horrible look on Sherlock’s face.

My captive squirms, letting out a nearly silent groan as my grip tightens on his forearm. _Serves him right for what he’s done_ ** _._ **

This is going to hurt.


	5. Hospital: Lestrade

The gleam in John’s eye tells me everything I need to know before he acts. Within moments, I’ve yanked his arms away from Mycroft, pinning them behind his back and clicking my handcuffs around his wrists before he can do something he will regret later. He struggles against me, a thick snarl twisting out of his mouth and the undercurrent of half-uttered curses filling the hospital room.

“Mycroft, **move** ,” I demand sharply. He skips out of the way, rubbing his sprained arm ruefully. He opens his mouth to speak, yet cuts himself off as I glare with a curt shake of my head. John continues tugging on his cuffs, aching to get away from my firm grip and failing. His desperation palpable, he lets out a low, guttural whine of frustration before starting to thrash. “John, don’t,” I beg, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “ _Please_.”

He growls and throws his head back. I dodge, thrusting my knee into the hollow behind his to force him to buckle to the floor. He drops harshly with a thud. I’m on him immediately, using all of my weight to drive him flat and then he’s writhing beneath me, tears streaming down his face while I restrain him.

**This is not John Watson.**

“They’re always tearing us apart, Sherlock,” the man below me sobs, body shaking. I maneuver myself to view his face, following his gaze up to the hospital bed. He’s staring at Sherlock, defeated, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot in purple-black pools of bruised skin. “Why can’t we just be together?”

It’s gutting me, hearing him talk like this, choking on his anguish. In my effort to get him contained, I hadn’t noticed Mycroft leave the room. The quiet _chink_ of the door as it unlatches startles me, and I’m unsurprised to see him returning with a doctor who is holding a syringe.

Sedation. _Bollocks._

“I don’t know if that will be necessary, mate,” I say quietly, holding the doctor’s gaze. He looks towards Mycroft, clearly seeking direction. Mycroft, his lips pursed, nods once. The _bastard._ “He isn’t even trying to get away, I’ve got it sorted,” I protest, shifting to shield John as much as I can from them.

“Detective Inspector, you’ve seen him yourself over the past week. His mental state is...uncertain. Until we have a solid plan in place for dealing with his unpredictable behavior, it would be best to keep him chemically restrained. For his safety as much as for ours. I’m sure you’ll agree,” Mycroft explains, a pinch of irritation at my defiance coloring his voice.

I glance back down at John, who is shuddering on the floor, trapped between my thighs while I sit on his arse. The fight is gone from him--here lies a broken man. He doesn’t need sedation; he needs to heal. He needs comfort. Most of all, he needs Sherlock to wake up.

“Mycroft, I--,” I start, ready to argue.

“ _Compliance_ is in your best interest, _Detective_.” He’s warning me, I can hear it. Perhaps if I give in to him now, later I can bargain for a more compassionate approach to helping my friend.

Leaning back on my haunches, I nod with a heavy sigh. If anything, the sedation will ease some of John’s emotional suffering for the time being. The doctor, wary of any aggressive limbs, moves carefully forward and plunges the needle into John’s flexed bicep, depressing it quickly so he can scurry away the moment the deed is done. Slowly, the wracking sobs below me dissolve in the stilted air around us. I catch Mycroft’s eye, placing all of my frustration, disappointment, and fury into my stare. He blanches, eyebrows shooting to his hairline as he interprets my gaze.

“That wasn’t needed, and you damn well know it,” I state, voice shaking. I need a cuppa and a smoke to calm my nerves after this incident.

“Yes, perhaps it is time for a cigarette. Join me?” Mycroft asks, ignoring my challenge and jumping straight to showing off. Must have seen my fingers twitch or something bloody insignificant like that. _Arsehole._ Regardless, I’m going out for one and he knows it. Maybe he wants to come to an understanding between us about how to handle this mess? I can’t let him call the shots about what happens to John--he’s a Holmes, and Lord knows they don’t have a reputation for their kindness.

“Fine. Get him onto a bed,” I command as I push off of the floor, mindful of John’s unconscious form below me. “And don’t you dare strap him down. He’s been through enough trauma in the past week, he doesn’t need you idiots triggering more.” Fishing in my jacket pocket, I find the key to my cuffs and lean down to unlock and remove them. Seems they had an extreme effect on him, and I swallow back the stone of guilt at my need for them. As I move away, the doctor and several nurses move into John’s space, checking his pulse, pupils, and other vital signs before rolling him to his side.

“Coming, Detective Inspector?” I hear Mycroft’s cautiously silken voice ask from the doorway.

Not bothering to answer, I take one last look at my two sleeping mates before brushing harshly past him, heading for the exit to the smoking area. I’m already fiddling with a lighter before the doors close behind me, cupping my hand around the end of the cigarette perched between my chapped lips. The first drag makes my blood sing and the involuntary quiver of my muscles subside. I’m vaguely aware as Mycroft steps out to join me, the _rasp-click_ of the lighter on my left sounding twice before a second ghost of tobacco smoke curls around us.

For several minutes, we’re just two blokes smoking, avoiding each others’ eyes and keeping painfully quiet. The crackle of the tobacco as it burns on each inhale fills the space between us, electric. My thoughts are circular, sticking to my concern for John.

“He is ill,” Mycroft states as though informing me of the time. _Prick._

I bite my bottom lip, worrying it tightly between my teeth to quell my frustration. _Of course he’s bloody ill, you prat_! I shout in my head, keeping my face pointed away from him lest he read my thoughts through my expression. “You don’t say?” I finally respond, voice tight with sarcasm.

Mycroft sighs, breath slinking out between his pursed lips, before he continues. “It is evident that John has chosen to ignore the clinical recommendations of his psychiatric team at the hospital. This, coupled with his recent trauma at the hands of Moran, seems to have driven him deep into madness. It is my strong opinion that he return to the psychiatric hospital for additional treatment and monitoring.” As I consider his words, imaginings of John returning to a psych ward fill my head: him being out of control of everything, away from Sherlock, and feeling completely helpless. Without realizing it, I must be shaking my head in disapproval at the idea as Mycroft comments further. “You disagree.” A statement, not a question, as the Holmes boys so often irritatingly do.

“You can’t take him away from Sherlock,” I reply before taking another burning drag on my cigarette.

“John has survived many situations in his life without the assistance of my brother. I’m sure he can manage another.”

Another shake of my head, yet this time Mycroft remains quiet. “No, Mycroft. You can’t take him _away from Sherlock_. If you want Sherlock to improve, you have to keep John here. I know you may not care much for John, but--”

“I am disappointed that you give me so little credit,” he interrupts, voice taunting. “John is important to Sherlock, and has saved Sherlock’s life in many ways, many times. I would be a fool to underestimate his importance to my brother. I... _value_ him.” He swallows thickly before using the last of his cigarette, breath stuttering out of him. “Immensely,” he adds before dropping his butt to the ground and stepping on it to put the fire out. “If you don’t agree with hospitalization, what would you suggest? We can’t let him keep behaving like this.”

If John knew we were out here discussing his mental and medical health without him, he would be furious. My thoughts flash back to him beneath me, fighting back after he nearly broke Mycroft’s arm. _This is not John Watson._ Well, it may not be all John Watson right now, but somewhere in there is a doctor, an army captain, and more importantly a mate. Suddenly, I remember an aunt of mine who suffered from psychosis and refused to take her medications because she was paranoid, so the psychiatrist was able to prescribe her an injectable that helped her stay on an even keel. Why wouldn’t the same work for John? Molly said it herself--he had been hallucinating. I may not be a doctor, but I’ve seen enough psychotic symptoms to know when they’re happening.

“Let’s give him a choice,” I recommend, running my hand over my forehead and snaking my fingers through my hair. “He can have an injected antipsychotic and close monitoring here, or he can go off to the psych hospital. If we give him a choice, he won’t fight us once he decides,” I assure, the plan solidifying in my brain. This is our best bet, and Mycroft knows it.

I watch as his shoulders straighten, chin jutting forward in a show of confidence that I doubt he feels. “Once he wakes from the sedative, I’ll propose these options to him if he is lucid enough,” he replies calmly, the mask of certainty sliding over his features.

Huffing out a chuckle to myself, I look at my feet while stubbing out my own completed cigarette. “How’s the arm?” I ask with a smirk. He shifts from one foot to the next before setting the corners of his mouth in an annoyed grimace. “ _I’ll_ talk to him, Mycroft. _Alone_ , without restraints, yeah? He won’t leave Sherlock, and while I can’t guarantee he’ll remember the details of what happened, he _will_ remember that you’re the one who set him off, and I’m not exactly keen on cuffing mates.”

I hear him snort before he turns and saunters back to the door of the hospital. “As you wish, Detective Inspector.” I watch him as he turns down the corridor, no doubt heading back towards Sherlock’s room.

“ ** _FUCK!”_ **

The trashcan flies across the smoking area with the force of my kick, slamming noisily against the opposite wall. Three quick strides and I’m over there, denting it repeatedly. The sound echoes off the sides of the building, ricocheting the racket across the courtyard and startling the other smokers. They hastily extinguish their cigarettes and scurry inside, but I barely notice as I unleash every ounce of rage I feel on the bin at my feet.

I place my palms against the brick and give two more swift kicks before resting my aching foot, breathing ragged while I hang my head and calm down. My cheeks are buzzing with the heat of my increased blood pressure, muscles still tense from the flood of adrenaline during my assault.

 _Why didn’t we catch Moran?_ John is right, we fucked this up royally, but everyone was so worried about Sherlock...

Snatching my phone from my coat, I shoot a quick text to Donovan.

**> >Send Message: Sally Donovan**

**14:03: Tell me you have good news.**

**< Donovan>**

**14:04: Wish I could say so. Dogs picked up an initial scent from the blood but lost it about 2 kilometres away from the warehouse.**

**14:04: Fuck. What about the other tracking teams?**

**< Donovan>**

**14:05: The blood spatters stopped at the same spot. Looks like he got into a vehicle. Obviously nothing is registered to him or Charles, which must have been an alias. I’ll keep you posted. You coming to the station anytime soon?**

**14:06: Send a security detail over. I have something to handle here first before I can leave.**

**14:07: Scratch that. Send two details. Moran has the same resources Moriarty had, which means he probably knows where John and Sherlock are already. Can’t risk it.**

**< Donovan>**

**14:08:** **_Two_ ** **details on** **_overtime_ ** **? You sure?**

**14:09: Just get them here, okay?**

A gust of cold, wintry air blows around me, rattling the bin against the wall and throwing the flap of my jacket open briefly. I stare disjointedly around the courtyard, hands leaden as they drop to my sides. We’ll fix this. I know we will. We’ll find this arsehole, Sherlock will wake up, John will get better, and then maybe the two idiots will start to say the words they’ve been hiding from each other for far too long. They’ll heal, eventually, _together_.

* * *

The coffee here is surprisingly decent, considering. As I swirl the dregs, there’s an uptick in John’s heart monitor. _He’s waking up._ I throw back the last of the drink before chucking it in the nearby bin, and walk to take a seat by the bed. He groans, exhausted and disoriented, eyelids fluttering in an attempt to clear the haze of unconsciousness. Once they remain open, he stares up at the ceiling, breath shallow and labored. The beeping evens out before settling in the background, forgotten. John’s head lolls to the side, expression flat with the aftereffects of such a heavy dose of sedation. A glimmer of recognition passes in his eyes as he meets my gaze, the skin at the bridge of his nose wrinkling with tension.

“Mornin’ sunshine,” I say quietly, a gentle smile on my face. He winces at the joke, forehead tight and lips downturned in a frown.

“Greg,” he croaks, voice hoarse from disuse. “What happened?”

I could use another cigarette to calm my thundering heart, but now’s not the time. “Well, to put it bluntly, you assaulted Mycroft Holmes for touching you and I ended up putting you flat before you got sedated.”

Instead of surprise, his face takes on a mask of shame as he swallows roughly. “ _That was_ **_real_** ,” he states, more to himself than me. His eyes slide shut, breath thready through his flared nostrils while he processes.

“Mycroft thinks you ought to be shipped up the river, back to the loony bin.”

“...you don’t think so,” he replies, staring at the ceiling. Even in this state, he’s quick. It’s no wonder Sherlock likes him so much. He keeps up.

“John, I think you need help, but I don’t think going back to a psychiatric hospital is the way. I want to help, but I need you to tell me the truth. When we were looking for you, we found a letter you wrote to Sherlock that made it sound like…” Pausing, I rub the back of my neck, trying to come up with the words. Finally, I settle on being straightforward--John doesn’t appreciate things being sugar-coated. “It made it sound like you are having hallucinations. Of Sherlock. And earlier, the way you were talking, it seems like...maybe you’re feeling a bit paranoid. Now, I don’t blame you--you’ve been through a lot, anyone would feel like you do right now. But it’s getting dangerous for you and everyone else, and we need to do something about it before it gets out of hand.” My throat feels tight as I consider the possibilities of his continued decompensation. John Watson is deadly when he’s got his head on straight--I hate to imagine what might happen in a fit of severe psychosis.

He sighs, running his hands over his face. “You think I’m psychotic. You’re not far off. The hospital said depression with psychosis, and they gave me meds for it.”

“Do you still have them?” I ask, hopeful.

His lips twitch into a half smile, cynical. “Of course not. Flushed them. He was pissed.” He gestures to an empty part of the room, eyes resting on an unknown point. “He knew I needed them, but I didn’t...I didn’t want him to leave me,” he ends on a whisper, the corner of his eyes welling with unshed tears. “I didn’t think…”

“John, Sherlock is alive. _You saw him_. You saved his life, for God’s sake. Will you take something now to help you, knowing the real Sherlock is going to be awake soon, ready to annoy the shite out of you, just like before?”

He blinks twice, then glances back at me, eyes hard. “What if he doesn’t?”

Forcing a pained smile, I answer, “This is _Sherlock_ we’re talking about. A bullet to the leg is hardly enough to kill him. Hell, he didn’t even die when he jumped off the roof of Bart’s. I’m starting to think he might be invincible.”

He chuckles silently at that, shoulders twitching. “He’d just love for everyone to think that about him,” John replies with a hint of resigned yet fond annoyance. “If you can get me something to take, I’ll take it if I can stay here with him. I want to be with him when he wakes,” he adds with a flick of his eyes back to the empty corner of the room. Sadness crosses his face, barely noticeable, before it settles into something much more resolute. Determined.

Much more the John Watson I know.

“Let me see what I can do. I’ll be back in a tick.”


	6. Hospital: John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get your tissues ready...

Apparently, ' _Let me see what I can do'_ **means** ' _we’re going to put you under one-to-one locked room supervision for two bloody days while we make sure your new meds don’t kill you before we inject something into your arse to make you stop being a **fucking** loon_.'

As a doctor, I understand. As a patient, not so much.

Molly, at Lestrade’s request, brought me some toiletries and a change of clothing from home, and Mycroft secured a private shower for me. The hospital has a barber, so I was able to get my hair trimmed and beard tamed. I considered shaving it off entirely--I’ve spent most of my life clean shaven. Decided against it though, for some reason. Sherlock will probably hate it.

As I went through these ritualized motions of self care, the flutter of anxiety settled behind my ribs. It felt like I was getting ready for something, like...a date.

> _“I need to get some air. We’re going out tonight.”_
> 
> _“Actually, I’ve, er, I’ve got a date.”_
> 
> _“What?”_
> 
> _“It’s where two people who like each other go out and have fun.”_
> 
> _“That’s what I was suggesting.”_

Was it, though? I remember the shock I felt at that moment, the fear that he might have meant it _like that_. I brushed it off, made it a joke, but later that evening when he arrived at the theatre my heart leapt uncomfortably, hammering in my throat. I told myself it was anger because he was disrupting _yet another_ of my dates.

It _wasn’t_ anger. I still don’t know if I’m ready to admit _what_ it was.

Shaking my head to clear the memory, I look back over at Sherlock, still a mess of tubes and wires. They decided to hook him up to an electroencephalogram to measure brain activity levels. In the past 3 hours since I’ve been sitting at his bedside, they’ve improved. The doctor here seems to think he may wake up soon, and I am honestly terrified.

It seems ridiculous, really. I’m afraid he’ll _wake up?_ What am I _saying_? I know he’s going to wake up. I’ve been doing nothing but wishing for it to happen for the past few days and now that it’s actually here, I’m afraid of it.

What will I say?

More importantly, what will _he_ say?

I need to breathe, but my chest is too tight with anxiety. The beeping from his heart rate monitor beats a staccato rhythm, counterbalanced with the ticking of the clock. Both sounds are drowning me, filling the room and sucking the air out of it.

_Beep, tick, beep, tock, beep, tick..._

His chest is rising and falling in time with it all, whistling quietly through his nostrils.

_In, out, in, out, in, out..._

_Beep, tick..._

_In, out..._

I’m going to go mad. I want to scream. I want to throw my chair. I want to shake his shoulders and demand that he _stop this, stop it right now_ and just wake up. **Wake up, Sherlock!** Wake up dammit! The suspense, the restlessness and lack of control is driving me insane and I just don’t think I can--

“Mmrphf…”

It...it can’t be. Is he--

“Mmm…”

I’m frozen to my seat, legs suddenly lead. I should tell somebody, I should call for the doctor or Mycroft, but--

_I want this._

Just for me, for...for _us_. I want to be the only thing he sees when he wakes up. I want to be the first person to watch those icy blue-green eyes open and come into focus, come back to life. I’m still _terrified_. I still don’t know what will happen or what he’ll say, but I need to have this moment with him. We’ve been fighting for _far_ too long.

His hand, quivering and pale, rises slowly to his face, fingertips settling on his brow below the EEG cap. The machine’s beeping increases as he continues to return to consciousness until he slides the sensors off his head with a gentle push. My throat is tight and dry, preventing me from saying anything while I watch him, waiting for his eyes to open.

Slowly, his lids rise, gaze immediately finding me. A chaotic play of emotions flies across his features--surprise, fear, hurt...and then finally, relief. More than relief; _elation_. **_Joy_**.

He’s _happy_ to see me. My blood sings in my veins, an involuntary grin drawing my lips up until my cheeks ache. He mirrors me, a genuine smile gracing those perfectly shaped lips. His eyes, fully open and focused, gloss over with the intensity of the moment.

He coughs quietly in an attempt to clear his throat and jumpstart his vocal chords before speaking in a meek, disbelieving voice, “John. You’re...you’re here.”

I’ve never heard him sound so unsure. My stomach drops, a million worried thoughts flooding my brain: _something’s wrong_ and _he doesn’t want me_ and _this isn’t like him_ and _I should leave._ I bring my tingling fingers up to rub the back of my neck, glancing down at my feet. “Of course... _Sherlock_ , of _course_ I’m here. Why wouldn’t I be?” My cheeks are hot with embarrassment, and I feel the urge to run out of the room.

Another cough catches my attention. Lingering effects from the intubation. When I meet his stare, the intensity and depth of feeling pins me to my seat. “You...you didn’t believe it was me,” he says, voice catching. “You thought...you were so…,” Sherlock trails off, chin trembling with suppressed tears. Despite his roughshod appearance, he looks so young and vulnerable like this. His eyes are wide and wet, eyebrows knitted together and lips downturned in a pout.

It breaks my heart to know I caused him this much pain.

His hand, resting on his thigh, twitches. I can’t take my eyes off it, nimble fingers clenching the white hospital sheet, agitated. Restless. _Needy_. I know that twitch--it’s the same as when he aches for a cigarette, or when he’s searching his Mind Palace for the lynchpin piece of data for a case.

_Does he need me?_

_I need him._

I meet his gaze again, letting my protective mask fall off my features. I want him to see what I’m thinking, see what I’m feeling right now. I can’t find the words to tell him, but maybe he’ll observe it all in the tightness of my cheeks and the pain behind my eyes. I press my lips together, holding him inside the whirlwind with me until finally--

“ _Oh_ , _John_ …”

Unable to resist any longer, I reach for his still twitching fingers and wrap my own around them, squeezing gently. “I’m here, Sherlock. Just don’t--” The words catch in my throat, a silent plea I dare not speak aloud. He’s just woken up--it wouldn’t be fair. _Cause this relationship is always about fairness,_ a bitter voice in my thoughts reminds me. Not now; I can’t do _that_ right now.

He’s watching me, eyes half hooded with the effects of his intravenous pain relief, yet still somehow bright and fully aware. Not just watching-- _observing_.

“I won’t,” he whispers as he predicts my unsaid words, flipping his hand to press his palm against mine and interlacing our fingers. “ _I promise_.” Sherlock shifts awkwardly on the bed, tearing his gaze away for a moment to swipe a few fingers from his unoccupied hand under his eyes. I’ve never seen him look so emotional, nor have I heard him promise anything so seriously. Rarely do I wish I could think like he does, but right now I’d give anything to know what is happening in his head. _Morphine lowers inhibitions; he could just be high._

Suddenly, he’s facing me again as he insists, “John, I _mean_ it. **I won’t.** And this…,” he gestures vaguely to his face, fingers flailing in the air restlessly. “...this is _not_ just the drugs. I decreased the dose the moment I saw you were here. I need to be--”

“ ** _You lowered your dose_**? You did just almost die, Sherlock. Aren’t you in pain?” The doctor in me reprimands, incredulous.

“It’s fine. We need to have this conversation so we can…,” he trails off, biting his lower lip and blinking slowly at me. His eyes lose focus, face vacant while he considers his next words.

A full minute passes, and my patience thin, I finally ask with a tight voice, “So we can...?” As I watch him open and close his mouth, nose scrunching with irritation at himself, my own thoughts begin their battle over what he might be trying to say.

_So we can be together?_

_So we can fight?_

_So we can be done?_

_So we can keep acting like_ **_this_ ** _isn’t real?_

_Is it even real?_

_It’s real to me._

_It can’t be real to him._

_Can it?_

“John,” he finally begins, voice firm with determination. My heart leaps into my throat, pulse pounding in my ears.

_This is it, this is it..._

“ _John_ ,” he repeats. “I...as you know I am usually a man of action, preferring to face challenges the moment I recognize them and respond in kind. I have never been prone to anxieties, and typically matters of sentiment are so easily dismissed that I rarely even notice when they arise. However, I find myself...stuck. Trapped? Paralyzed? Any of those words will do to describe the feeling I have when it comes to... _this._ ” He nods, lips pressed together as if it’s perfectly clear what he’s saying.

 _It isn’t_. Not in the slightest. “Sherlock, what in the hell are you talking about?” I ask, confusion overriding every other thought.

He frowns, lips turned into a pout at my lack of understanding. “ _This,_ John. This... _thing_ between us. I--I know what I want but I can’t seem to make my desires clear to you. I’m completely ineffectual.” Shame colors his cheekbones a dusky rose at the admission.

Licking my lips, I consider his words carefully.

_I know what I want._

**_Desires_** _._

**Oh.**

“Sherlock, I think you’ve said it,” I murmur quietly with a smile, looking down at our clasped hands next to his sheet-covered thigh.

“ ** _Said what_**? I babbled a bunch of nonsense at you. I haven’t said anything _at all_ and it’s **infuriating**!” His free hand runs through his hair, tousling his unwashed curls in frustration. He pulls his hand away sharply, glaring at the oil and gel from the EEG cap coating his fingertips, disgusted. “It feels like...like all the things I need to say are sitting behind my teeth and they’re refusing to come out, which is absolutely absurd. Words are just words, they _don’t_ \-- **_I can’t_** \--”

As I watch him rant, I slowly raise our joined hands towards me, pausing to disentangle our fingers and take hold of his wrist. He stops his monologue abruptly, staring at me while I bring my lips down to the pulse point beneath his palm and kiss it gently, the softest brush of contact. Goosebumps bloom along his forearm as he gasps almost silently in shock. Adjusting my grasp I spread his fingers and place another barely-there kiss to the middle of his palm, inhaling his scent as though it were the finest cologne known to man. His eyelids flutter shut as his breathing deepens, steeling himself against the sensations.

 _He’s both touch starved and overwhelmed,_ I realize. _This must be too much for him._

Disappointment and guilt pool in my gut. Maybe I misunderstood what he was trying to say. He didn’t pull away, but he might be too affected by the medications to even consider it. _Dammit._

I lower his hand back to the bed and pat it once before letting go entirely, returning my own hands to my lap. His eyelids drag open, gaze distant as it settles on his hand.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry, I--”

“You stopped. Why?” he asks in a thick, dreamy voice. _Disappointed_.

Swallowing harshly around the stone in my throat, I summon the courage to reply, “I wasn’t sure you wanted me like...like _that._ To do... _that._ ” My hand flails in a vague gesture towards him as I clear my throat and avert my eyes, protecting myself from his inevitable rejection. _Sherlock Holmes doesn’t do this,_ I remind myself. _He doesn’t do sentiment, or relationships, or--_

“John Watson, you are an idiot,” he states firmly with a frown, interrupting my internal self deprecating monologue and forcing my gaze back to his. “I have _always_ wanted you, from the moment I met you. I have _always_ needed you. _I’ve spent my life waiting for you_. I gave up everything I had to keep you safe, even when it tore me away from you. I’ve promised you I will never leave you again, and I mean it. There is no way I could ever do that again and survive it. I just... _please_ consider returning the favor,” he mumbles quietly, seemingly embarrassed to ask.

Returning the favor? Of promising never to leave him? My chest feels broken open at the thought of whatever misguided perception he has of me and my commitment to him. “But Sherlock, I’ve never left you,” I argue, adrenaline making its way through my body with both excitement and anger at his request. _I’m not the one who disappeared for months and months after faking my own death._

Suddenly his hand is wrapped around mine again, fingers pressing into my palm roughly. “You may not have succeeded, but you certainly tried. John... _please_. Just... _don’t ever do that again_. I...I couldn’t bear it and I would _never_ forgive myself.”

The tears threatening to spill over onto his cheekbones glisten in the harsh hospital room lighting, creating the illusion of sparkles around his eyes. It would be beautiful-- _he is beautiful_ \--except for the pained grimace on his face, contorting his features.

“ _Bugger_ , Sherlock. Give me your morphine tap, let me turn it back up for you. You’re in pain, obviously. We can talk another time--”

He tightens his grip on my hand, interrupting with a nearly silent, “ _Please, John._ ”

Again, my heart aches at his vulnerability. I cough to cover my discomfort before croaking out, “Yeah, Sherlock, okay. I...I promise. I promise I won’t ever do _that_ again. Now, um, morphine? Your leg must be killing you,” I plead, squeezing his fingers.

A heartless laugh bubbles up from his chest, trying to dismiss my concern. “John, you know my methods. I am known to be invincible.” He shifts, a barely audible gasp escaping his lips before his face settles back into his best _bored_ expression--a mask.

“You may have been dead for 7 months but you _can’t_ fool me, Sherlock. Give it over. Doctor’s.. _.doctor’s orders_.” Hearing myself say that phrase, something I’ve not said in nearly a year, feels _unreal_.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock picks up the morphine tap and adjusts it, showing it to me to prove he’s increased his dose again. “John, I’m not a _child_.”

I laugh for the first time in what seems like a lifetime. It feels uncomfortable and awkward, and yet...like _coming_ _home_. Sitting next to my very best friend, simultaneously annoyed and completely enamored, laughing at his petulant scowl. “No, you’re just an _idiot_ , Sherlock,” I reply with a grin.

He snorts imperiously, affronted. I snicker harder until he finally joins me, deep rumbles shaking his chest. Eventually, our humor settles but we remain connected through our eyes and joined hands, everything still unsaid floating between us. _We’ll have time for that later_ , I remind myself as I watch his eyelids sink at the effects of his pain relief. He struggles against it, blinking heavily and shaking his head while his gaze becomes distant and unfocused.

“Shhhh, Sherlock. It’s okay. I’m here. Rest, okay?” I whisper soothingly, reaching over with my free hand to stroke his hair. His head heavy, he leans into my touch, eyes finally sliding shut.

“Don’t...leave…,” he mutters as he begins to drift into much-needed sleep.

Running my fingers over his scalp, I smile, feeling fond. “I won’t.”


	7. Artwork!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beta_Jawn, who I love forever, created these gorgeous pieces of art to depict the shift in facial expressions when Sherlock first wakes up in the last chapter. Enjoy!!

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155469010@N02/25944159547/in/dateposted-public/)   
[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155469010@N02/40106494664/in/dateposted-public/)   
[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155469010@N02/40106494514/in/dateposted-public/)   
[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155469010@N02/40106494694/in/dateposted-public/)   
[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155469010@N02/40106494554/in/dateposted-public/)   
[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155469010@N02/40106494734/in/dateposted-public/)


	8. Hospital (yes, still. It's intolerable): Sherlock

John’s muffled, rhythmic snoring somehow softens the cacophony of electronic noises in the room--constant beeping from the heart monitor, gushes of air, the base hum of several cooling fans, and the dripping from the IV. Without his comfortable, relaxed tempo of breath, these sounds would easily drive me to insanity. They are incessantly irritating, but I find them tolerable with his presence. In fact, hearing them now makes me realize how much I have come to rely on them as a source of comfort, and how much I missed them in my time away.

My thoughts, sluggish with the morphine, drift lazily around each other. They resemble curls of cigarette smoke, thick with incoherent substance. Occasionally I pick out an image or feeling, and they are all related to my sleeping companion. Our exchange earlier was overwhelming, full of the unsaid words we aren’t yet comfortable exposing to each other. I was exasperated with myself--I’d been mentally rehearsing everything I need to tell him as I traveled back to London and when the moment came, my mind betrayed me. I could see his discomfort, his unease. He was holding back, keeping his true reactions from me. At times I wished to reach out and demand the truth of him, yet I knew... _know_...he is too fragile for that. Too vulnerable, too _raw_. My usual tactics of gleaning information will only drive him away, and _that_ is unacceptable.

I did manipulate him into sleeping--he looks gaunt, malnourished, and exhausted. Judging by the creases in his shirt and the stiffness in his shoulder, he’s been sitting for the majority of his time here, watching me. Waiting for me to wake. I fiddled with the morphine tap to convince the doctorly instincts in him to relax, and feigned unconsciousness until his hand on my head stilled and fell to my shoulder. He fought against sleep, head jerking the moment he would start to drift until finally, his neglected physiological needs won out (as I predicted it would). I adjusted his position to be as comfortable as possible within the current limitations imposed by the (supremely unnecessary) monitoring devices attached to me, and have since been observing him openly.

At Baker street, I often found myself in his room while he slept, watching him. John has always been fascinating to me, and on the nights he seemed most restless or agitated prior to bed (typically due to some irritation with me) he undoubtedly experienced an increase in nightmares. For a short time I collected data on the occurrences to confirm my hypothesis; I was correct, _naturally_. So I took it upon myself to provide him with whatever comfort I could, feeling guilty for inciting these episodes. Initially, I was timid in my ministrations, assuming he might wake with the increased physiological activity inherent in the REM cycle of sleep. However, as time went on, I realized that when affected by the demons of his memories, John was difficult to rouse.

> _“John, you’re safe here with me. I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise. I’ll always be here to protect you. Shh, relax, John. I’m here, shh…,” I coo into his ear, hand sweeping across his forehead before stroking his hair. His writhing and pained groaning slows, breath evening out as he unconsciously responds to my voice, my touch. Eventually he stills under the cage of my comforting arms, my breath and voice warm against his cheek while I whisper. “You’re safe...I’m here...go to sleep, John…”_

The memory fades, evaporating into the haze of painkillers clogging my synapses. What would John say if he knew about these middle-of-the-night rendezvous between us? Initially, he’d bark at me about privacy and boundaries, frustrated with my lack of understanding (or caring). I would let him shout about it; no use arguing. He’s right--we don’t have a relationship that allows for such unbidden contact and familiarity between us.

Well. We _didn’t_. It would seem, given his behavior earlier, that perhaps this aspect is changing? Is this why he was so uncomfortable earlier, offering increased physical connection and then quickly withdrawing it? Perhaps this is the reason for his conflicted expression throughout our conversation; he wants more from me, but he doesn’t know whether it’s acceptable to ask for it. His kisses to the inside of my wrist, my palm--they made my heart race. They were so tender and sensual, an offer of more. I was lost in the sensations--my thoughts stilled entirely, focused on only him and his lips, soft and chapped. A contradiction, the embodiment of John’s entire being.

 _John_.

He misinterpreted my reaction, thought he was overwhelming me and quickly apologized. John is a man of honor, of integrity, and it’s likely he was afraid of taking advantage of me in my inebriated state. I should have said something to quell his fears, yet my throat was unbearably tight and my mouth was dry. I suppose I _was_ overwhelmed. A bit.

_I enjoyed being overwhelmed by him._

The door to the room swings open suddenly, interrupting my musings and pulling my attention away from John. Mycroft sweeps in, twirling his umbrella with a veiled expression of surprise on his face as he surveys the scene in front of him. The warmth in my chest dissipates as I stare at my brother, blinking slowly while he determines how best to proceed. He was never good at hiding his thought processes from me.

“Not what you were expecting?” I ask coldly as he continues gaping.

His eyes slide from John’s sleeping form over to meet my gaze, chin rising slightly. _Appearances_ , as always. He snorts, lips pursing in mild annoyance at my petulance, but there’s something else there. A softness in his cheeks, the barest hint of a tremble in his chin. He swallows, and for a moment I can see through the carefully constructed mask.

 _He’s_ _relieved_.

And if he’s relieved, it means...he was _worried_ about me. I take in the minute details of his appearance, and the truth is revealed: new, fine tension lines between his eyebrows and around his mouth. Fingers stained from increased cigarette smoking, twitching from too much nicotine and caffeine. Suit wrinkled at the hips and knees, indicating agitated pacing. Eyes bloodshot from little to no sleep. And the tremble in his chin...it’s the most damning piece of evidence on him.

Discomfort pools deep in my core, settling like ice. _We don’t do this_. Not usually, anyway. I hold his serious stare, allowing the briefest of apologies to flash across my face. He catches it, naturally, and gives a curt nod before his features resume their usual distance.

“Of course I expected this, Sherlock. The doctor indicated you would wake soon, and I knew once you did Dr. Watson would finally allow himself to rest,” Mycroft replies coolly, making a show of picking a piece of lint off his suit sleeve.

I roll my eyes, engaging in the charade with him. Neither of us are willing to acknowledge what has passed between us, nor discuss the severity of what happened in the past month. “Well?” I ask, punctuating the ' _l'_ with a flick of my tongue against my teeth. (He hates it when I do that.)

A blink, then an eyebrow raise. Refusing to rise to the bait. I’ve missed our sparring in my time away enough that I could almost smile. _Almost_.

After two minutes and thirteen seconds, “Well, _what_ , Sherlock?” he finally asks with a defeated sigh.

“I expect I’ll be released to Baker street this afternoon. Where is my clothing?”

“Sherlock!” he nearly shouts, quieting as I shoot a warning glare at him for threatening to wake John. I glance at my friend, who shifts with a quiet groan and remains asleep. “You realize that there are procedures to follow, tests to be run--”

“I’ve been here for nearly a **week** ,” I interrupt, voice full of steel. “How many more tests need they run? At this point my staples can be removed, and they’ve had an EEG on me for the past 24 hours, no doubt collecting my brain activity and determining I’m no longer at risk of damage or prolonged coma. I--” Pausing, I bite my lip with uncertainty at how much I want to reveal. A soft snore from John decides it for me. “I need to get John home. You know as well as I that he cannot stay here much longer and maintain his tenuous grasp on reality. He’s malnourished and exhausted. _I refuse to let that continue._ ”

Mycroft huffs, looking out the windows while his jaw works, teeth clenching in frustration. Finally, he replies evenly, “And what makes you think he’ll return to Baker street?”

I know he will, yet the thought that he might not flutters uncomfortably in my chest, a hint of a possible, devastating reality tinting my thoughts. Guilt that I could drive him to such a conclusion flows thick through my veins, numbing me entirely. If he needs distance from me, so be it, but I am unsure that I would survive such rejection from him unscathed.

“Mycroft, of course I’ll return to Baker street. Don’t be an arsehole,” I hear from over my right shoulder. The back of my neck immediately tingles with a flood of embarrassment, shame, and excitement that John has been privy to at least some of this exchange between us. I take a deep breath before turning to face him, needing visual observation to properly assess his emotional state and determine whether he means what he says.

His face is set with determination, serious and calm. No evidence of his earlier uncertainty--in this moment, he is absolutely sure of what he wants. My heart pounds, breath caught in my lungs. My chest feels painfully tight, squeezed in a vice of mingling fear and anticipation. Our eyes meet and the barest hint of a smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

“That is, of course, if you want me to,” he adds meekly, a light flush rising onto his cheeks and pinking the tips of his ears. The rest of the room melts away as I stare at him, memorizing his expression and committing it to the _John_ wing of my Mind Palace. He watches me, face weary but eyes warm.

“I would be honored, John,” I reply sincerely, feeling the heat coloring my own face in kind. “After all, I will need someone to tend to my wound,” I comment wistfully with a shrug. He fights back a smile, lips pressed together as he glances away to hide his laugh with a cough. It’s an honest, beautiful sound that until now I hadn’t realized I’d been missing terribly.

Clearing his throat, he turns back and answers, “I believe I am your doctor, then.” Amusement fades into exasperation as he adds, “Lord knows you won’t follow any of the aftercare instructions without me.” He throws a mock glare my way, but his lips continue quivering against a smile. Any anxiety I may have held before this moment about his care for me dissipates entirely, giving way to the bloom of warmth I’ve come to associate only with _John_ : my flatmate, my partner, my blogger, my doctor, my friend, _my love_.

I raise an eyebrow at him mischievously with a smirk. “Seems we are similar in that regard.”

He breaks eye contact to look down at his feet and rub a hand at the back of his neck, ashamed at the truth behind my statement. “Seems so.” Then, with a bite of his lip, he nods once to himself and glances back up at me with a lopsided smile. “We’re quite the _pair_ ,” he adds.

Behind me, Mycroft clears his throat and asks, irritated, “Are you two finished yet?”

Not bothering to pay him any extra attention, I snap, “Oh, do shut up, Mycroft, and fetch my things. John and I are going home.”

“Sherlock--”

“Better not, Mycroft. You know what he’s like when he’s made up his mind,” John warns. “Trying to keep him here any longer will only give you and everyone else in this hospital a headache. And that’s the _best_ case scenario-- _you know it is_.” Despite the topic being my own unbearable behavior, John’s tone remains kind. Not just kind-- _fond_. **_Adoring_** , even. The thought sparks something inside me as Mycroft turns to leave, a storm of doubts and worries about this new version of our...relationship.

While I typically do not put much stock into cliches and adages, preferring instead to draw my own conclusions, I have heard it said that _absence makes the heart grow fonder_. I’ve experienced this phenomenon myself, and have identified it as a thought distortion wherein our memories are tinted with an idealized version of people and events in the absence of the real thing. A deification, of sorts. At times when I have spent prolonged periods away from my parents or brother, I have succumbed to this twisted perception and found myself _missing_ _them_ and feeling the numbing effects of sentiment as I thought of them. Naturally, the moment we share space again the fairy tale dissolves and I’m reminded yet again of reality.

Is this what is happening between John and I? Is he merely fond because I almost died in his arms? Because I _was_ dead to him for many months? Once we return to Baker street, will he find me irritating once more, barely putting up with me out of a sense of duty? I don’t believe my feelings towards him are a distortion; I have had them for much longer than we were apart. What about him? He never seemed... _like this_...towards me before. At times I showed him affection; well, _my_ version of affection, which often resembles a cat bringing home its most recent kill for its master. To the master, it is off-putting. To the cat, it is the purest symbol of love. Dragging John through the streets of London, sharing secret giggles at a crime-scene, yelling insults at his favorite crap telly programmes, stealing curry from his takeout container after distracting him…

I have loved John Watson for longer than I can remember, and I am terrified that once the haze of relief leaves him, he will choose to leave me. He will see my dead mice and decide that he can’t tolerate my fickle affectations and quick-to-lash-out claws. He will determine that I’m just too... _me._ My heart feels heavy at the thought, thudding slowly in my chest as though drowning. A hand closes around mine, startling me out of my self-deprecating spiral.

“Hey,” John says, concern knitting his eyebrows together as he peers at me. “You look like you’re trapped up there. What are you thinking about?”

I shake my head, unsure I’m capable of speech while he looks at me _like that_.

“Well, stop it. It looks like...if you aren’t sure about me coming back, I understand. I can just help you for a few days and then go back to my flat while we figure things out. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he says with false sincerity. He doesn’t want me to agree, doesn’t want me to send him away, but he would never force himself into my life.

Again, I shake my head at him. There aren’t words for _this_. It’s _infuriating_. I am a _genius_ and yet I cannot find _any_ words to accurately elucidate the cyclone of emotions and thoughts battering themselves against the inside of my ribs. _I_ _hate it._

His hand tightens on mine, thumb stroking the back of my hand firmly. “I don’t know--Sherlock, I…,” he sighs, frustrated with himself. He has told me time and again that he isn’t comfortable expressing himself, that he isn’t good with _this_ _type of thing_ , and I can feel his annoyance at it.

Finally, he clears his throat and tries again with renewed courage. “I want to come home. I want to...I want to _be_ _with_ _you_. If--well...if you--”

“Of course I want you to come home with me, John,” I interrupt, voice firmer than I expected it would be.

He keeps my gaze, eyes full of emotion, and nods sharply. “It’s settled, then. I’ll just--” He gestures at the door, giving my hand a quick squeeze before getting up to go sign me out and gather my clothing from Mycroft. I watch as they have a brief conversation outside the windows to the room, John’s face set with the firm lines of the soldier in him. Ready for battle. Ready to defend. Ready to protect. Mycroft, obviously noticing the steel in John’s shoulders, submits easily, keeping his body language passive and open. It’s fascinating to watch this power play between them. Seeing John take charge, draw up the Captain in him and emanate his authority in order to accomplish his goals--it ignites my core, desire threading around my gut and settling deep in my low abdomen with a curl of warmth. I close my eyes, breathing deeply to calm my stuttering heart. After being away for so long, I had forgotten the effect he has on my physiology.

 _I want to be_ **_with_ ** _you_ , he said.

John strides quickly down the hall towards the nurses station, purpose driven in his movements. Mycroft turns and looks at me through the window, eyebrows raised in a silent question.

 _I want to be_ **_with_ ** _you._

I nod slowly at Mycroft, confirming what he’s asking of me. I’m sure, this time. I’m sure.

 _I want to be_ **_with_ ** _you._

His lips set, he nods back. He’ll have John’s things moved for us before we arrive. It will be like none of the last 8 months ever happened. We will settle once again into our routine, enmeshing our lives together. Except...it won’t be _at all_ like it was before. It’s a ridiculous delusion to assume we might return to _that_ version of life. Wiggling deeper into the pillows behind my back, I mentally play out the various scenarios that may await us back at Baker Street, my fingers steepled tremulously against my lips.

 _I want to be_ **_with_ ** _you._

“Sherlock? Ready?” John asks. I hadn’t noticed him reenter the room, holding the bag of my clothing. Mycroft is gone, already heading back to his office with Anthea now that it’s been decided we are leaving this wretched place and returning to our home. _Together._

**_I want to be with you._ **

“Obviously,” I reply with false sarcasm, rolling my eyes. He smirks and drops the bag in a chair to come help me as I throw the blanket off my lap and swing my legs over the side of the bed.

“Hey, slow down. You _were_ just shot,” he chides as he places his hands on my shoulders, stepping between my knees. Our eyes are nearly level like this, our bodies so close I can feel the warmth from his skin and his breath on my face. His scent wafts over me, some of it familiar and some of it _wrong_ with the addition of the new medication regimen and the recent trauma to his body. I shift my focus to the more comforting aspects of him--his firm, strong hands settled on my shoulders, the feeling of his powerful legs between my thighs (barely touching, yet electrifying), and the way he leans unconsciously towards me, swaying on the balls of his feet. The soft pink of his tongue darting out between his lips nearly makes me moan, my breath catching in my throat. He blinks twice, his expression changing suddenly into something unreadable as he pulls away and offers his hands to me for support. I shiver--whether due to his recent presence or current lack thereof, I’m uncertain--and consider him thoroughly, attempting to deduce the extent to which he is offering _himself_ (not just his hands) to me.

 **_I want to be with you,_ ** his voice echoes in my head a final, telling time.

Flashing him a brief smile, I take his hands and stand, towering over him. “Yes, I was there when it happened,” I remind him, glancing pointedly down at my bandaged thigh. He huffs out a chuckle, patting me on the shoulder before reaching behind himself to grab my clothing, thrusting it at my chest.

“Let’s go home, idiot.”


	9. Artwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Obviously,” I reply with false sarcasm, rolling my eyes. He smirks and drops the bag in a chair to come help me as I throw the blanket off my lap and swing my legs over the side of the bed.  
> “Hey, slow down. You were just shot,” he chides as he places his hands on my shoulders, stepping between my knees. Our eyes are nearly level like this, our bodies so close I can feel the warmth from his skin and his breath on my face. His scent wafts over me, some of it familiar and some of it wrong with the addition of the new medication regimen and the recent trauma to his body. I shift my focus to the more comforting aspects of him--his firm, strong hands settled on my shoulders, the feeling of his powerful legs between my thighs (barely touching, yet electrifying), and the way he leans unconsciously towards me, swaying on the balls of his feet. The soft pink of his tongue darting out between his lips nearly makes me moan, my breath catching in my throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gorgeously drawn by Beta_Jawn. <3

**Full Picture**  
[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155469010@N02/39138027200/in/dateposted-public/)

**Close-up**  
[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155469010@N02/39138027660/in/dateposted-public/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMFG Look at John's eyes in this!! So much emotion, captured perfectly!! UGH she kills me! *fangirling all over the place*


	10. Baker Street: John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay on this chapter. I had a very busy weekend celebrating Beta_Jawn's birthday! Also, these two were giving me some trouble. I did not expect this to be...what it is. But I'm pleased with it. I hope you are too!

We’ve arrived.

At Baker street.

**_We’ve arrived_** **.**

I’m staring at the door. That black door with those distinctive gold numbers and antique knocker. The door that I shut the day of Sherlock’s funeral, expecting that it would be the last time I closed it behind me. Closing off that part of my life, leaving it entirely, attempting to forget and move on. Move forward. _Right_. I could laugh, thinking about how delusional that was.

I’m staring at the door and feel my heart thundering in my chest, blood pumping in my ears with a sudden surge of anxiety. What lies beyond that door? What happens when I open it back up again? I suppose I never really closed it all the way in the first place. I pulled it as shut as I could, but the secrets of that life continued to spill through the cracks, bleeding out until they finally overtook me completely. The life that _was_ and would _never_ **_be_** _again_ ; the life that consumed me and ruined me and gave me a purpose. The life that made all other versions of life inadequate and stale. _My life with Sherlock Holmes._

Here I am, sitting in the back of one of Mycroft’s luxury vehicles, staring at a door and knowing that once I open it I will have _that life_ with _this man_ back again. Only it won’t be _that_ life, will it? It will be something else entirely. Maybe that’s why my breath is shallow and my heartbeat rapid. It’s still _me_ , it’s still _him_ , it’s still _this door_ but it’s **_none_ ** of those things at all.

“John?” he asks from behind me, voice tight with exhaustion. He obviously wasn’t physically ready to leave the hospital. Getting dressed left him breathless. He refused a wheelchair, _of course_ , and was panting by the time we made it to the car. As we drove, his eyes slid shut and his head fell back on the seat. I know he should have stayed longer at the hospital, but I also know neither of us would have tolerated it for very long. My words to Mycroft were a half-truth, ignoring the fact that I was already crawling out of my skin in there.

His hand lands softly on my forearm, fingertips barely brushing the leather of my jacket before withdrawing. I glance at him and nod. “Yeah. Let’s...I’ll--”

A scowl. “I can manage.”

 _Of course_ he can manage, the arrogant bastard.

Knowing that if I force the issue immediately I’ll be snapped at, I slide out of the car and wait on the pavement for Sherlock. He makes a show of keeping his face neutral, though I can hear the muttered curses and quiet gasps as he eases himself upwards, using the car door as a support. His Adam’s apple bobs slowly in his throat with a thick swallow before he turns to shut the door. The effort nearly pulls him off balance, and before I realize it I have my hands on his hips to steady him. I can feel the tension in his frame the moment I touch him; he wasn’t expecting it.

His breath still quick, he says, “Thank you, John. I’m fine now. Let’s go inside.”

Even through his Belstaff I can feel the sharp angles of his hip bones under my fingers, and it spurs a traitorous thought: _I don’t want to let go._ For a few seconds I imagine what it might feel like without such thick material separating us--milky white skin, stretched taut over those steely bones. The concave hollows directly above his hips, dewy soft and spotted with the occasional dark blot of freckle, a constellation decorating the flat expanse of his abdomen.

“John?”

The vision fades and I’m left with a rush of embarrassment at imagining him _like that_ , my ears turning hot and the back of my neck tingling. Avoiding his gaze, I nod and release his hips. “Yeah. You’re okay?” I can feel his stare on me and refuse to meet it, rubbing my forehead instead. “I’ll get the door. You have your--”

“Yours is in your pocket,” he cuts me off, tone hesitant.

Right. Mycroft was part of this, I’m sure. Well, _fine_. As I walk towards the door, I retrieve _my_ key and place it in front of the lock. The door looms over me, seemingly twice as large as it usually is as I consider the weight of this moment. _This is it._ Last chance to run. Last chance to turn back, to walk away from _all_ of this--the fingers in the crisper, the blood on the floor, the holes in the wall and the 2am violin music caterwauling through the flat. The yelling. The drugs busts. The madman with the patience of a toddler. The genius who sees everything and knows how it fits together. The machine--no, the **man**. The talented, awful man who _doesn’t understand_ but tries to learn for the sake of those he loves.

_For me._

**_He loves me._ **

The key slides slowly into the lock, tumblers clicking until it’s sheathed entirely. I hear Sherlock’s shuffled steps behind me and realize he must have been waiting for me to make my decision. He hadn’t moved from the curb. Maybe it was the tension in the back of my neck resolving, or the release of my clenched fist at my side. Whatever it was, he saw it. He _always_ sees it, and so he moved to join me once he knew that _it’s done._ I’m doing it--I’m returning to this life. I’m returning to _him_.

The warmth inside the entryway seems stifling after the brisk February air still stuck in my lungs, yet the scents of the flat are immediately familiar and comforting. Mrs. Hudson baked today--the smell of yeast hangs in the air. Sourdough, probably. My favorite. _She didn’t bake it for me, why would she?_ I glance down the hall towards her flat, but the doorway is dark. Must have gone out.

“She’s gone for the day,” Sherlock announces, startling me. As I whirl to face him, his eyes are piercing. _Observing_. I feel immediately small under that gaze, shrinking in on myself for a moment before something hot curls in my core, and a flash of anger fills me. _Don’t do that, Sherlock. Not to me._

I bite back an irritated, snarky response and move further inside, pausing at the bottom of the steps. The throbbing in my head subsides as I consider the challenge before us. “Sherlock, how in the hell are you going to get up all these stairs?” I ask, turning again to face him.

His tired eyes remain flat but his mouth fakes a quick smile. “Slowly, I’m sure. By the time I make it up there the tea ought to be ready.”

“Tea?”

“Love some. Thanks, John,” he quips at me, a glint of life finally flashing in his gaze. He glances quickly up the stairs, clearly indicating his expectation that I’ll jump to his request.

Catching on, I frown and cross my arms. “Hm. Right. You’re so sure you can do this by yourself, are you?”

He schools his features into a perfectly blank slate and stares coolly at me, leisurely blinking like a lazy cat. “Obviously.”

That word, so often uttered by my companion, used to incite feelings of frustration at the arrogance behind it. Now, I know better--it’s a mask, a front to hide how unsure he feels. For Sherlock Holmes, _obviously_ means _I don’t know_ in this instance. _Fine_ , Sherlock. **_Your way_** **,** then. It’s **_always_** your way.

“I’ll just stand here, then,” I reply evenly, leaning against the wall near the bottom step and crossing my arms.  

I receive a sideways glare in response. “And do what? Watch me?” His tone is petulant; embarrassed. He knows this will be a struggle, and he doesn’t want an audience. If I wasn’t so concerned about the effects a fall would have on him, I’d give in and head upstairs to make tea, as asked. However, while my intellect may pale in comparison to his, it certainly doesn’t mean that I’m stupid. There’s no way I’m leaving him here alone to hurt himself, as he inevitably would.

I throw a lopsided smirk at him and nod. “Go on.”

Sherlock does his best to give the appearance of strength and stability, even in his worst moments, and this is no different. Throwing his shoulders back, his chin rises and jaw clenches as he takes the first stair with his good leg, hand resting on the railing for support. I hear the sharp hiss of breath through his teeth as he shifts his weight forward, bringing up his foot to rest alongside the other one. His knuckles are straining against the skin of his hand, bleaching it white with tension as he clutches the handrail. As he goes to take the second step, the knee on his injured leg buckles beneath his weight and he lets out a surprised, pained shout, hands immediately flung forward to stop his fall.

I’m holding him before I realize it, slotting my shoulders under his arm and wrapping myself around his torso for support. His breath is labored, coming out in short gasps. I can feel his chest heaving under my hands, my fingers splayed out amongst his ribs. Suddenly, I feel self consciously aware of how intimate this position is for us, pressed from shoulder to thigh against each other. Each exhale from him bathes the top of my head in warm air, filling my nostrils with his unique musk and tea scent mixed with the chemical, bleach-laden smell of the hospital. It’s an intrusion, pungent. False. _Irritating_. I want him to shower, to rid himself of the evidence of our shared trauma and return to the comforting perfume of his posh toiletries and the musty, dust-laden aroma specific to Baker street.

He grunts in frustration, and though I can’t see him I can imagine his nostrils flaring and the crinkle at the top of his nose as he glares down at me.

“John--”

“Shut up. You need help. You and I both know that the last place for either us is at the hospital again, hm? So, just…,” I pause, sighing heavily. “Just let me help you.” A plea, and a command. For a moment, I expect him to argue.

But then--

“Yes, John. All right.”

And his arm comes to rest around me, a large hand settling warmly on my shoulder. I shift, aligning our sides to better support him, and firm up my grasp on his ribs with one hand while reaching up to grab his wrist for stability. “Let’s just take it slow, yeah? Lean on me. Ready?”

I feel him nod above me with a deep, rumbling, “Yes, John,” reverberating through his ribs, vibrating under my fingertips pressed into his side. The sensation sends tingles up my spine and into my scalp, causing my breath to hitch and heart to pound.

With a sharp swallow, I nod and guide him forward, taking the next step with him. He follows suit, allowing his weight to rest against me. After a few more excruciatingly slow steps, we pause so he can catch his breath.

“You know, this would be much easier if you had just agreed to the crutches,” I chide.

He snorts. “I can’t be seen _like that_ , John. People will think I’m _weak_. I have an image to uphold.”

I can’t help but laugh, a bit of tension finally leaving me. “You idiot. People still think you’re _dead_ , remember?”

Sherlock waves his free hand dismissively. “Details. Plus, if I had crutches I wouldn’t have the pleasure of your... _assistance_ ,” he replies, quietly.

_Did Sherlock Holmes just flirt with me?_

I stare up at him and notice the light blush creeping up his cheeks, as well as his very pointed gaze at my hand wrapped around his torso. I follow his eyes and realize I’ve been absentmindedly stroking his side, palm running over his ribs and down to his hip before retracing its path back up again. _Shit._ Everything about me freezes, including my rogue bloody hand, and I squeeze my eyes shut with a silent prayer to rewind the last few moments.

“I don’t mind,” Sherlock murmurs above me, voice huskier than I remember. Though part of me is relieved, I'm terrified at the implications of this admission. The pulse in his wrist flutters under my fingertips like a hummingbird. The doctor in me counts it automatically, a retreat to the safety of a role I know. I’m fully aware that I’m fleeing this uncertain moment and the swell of irrational emotion in the pit of my stomach as the seconds tick by.

“John?” he asks, unsure. I hum in response, a noncommittal noise, and force my eyes open to stare at the steps.  The air is again too warm, too thick, and I feel suffocated by it. He nudges me with his hip to get my attention, but I know that if I meet his gaze right now--I can’t. I’m not ready for this, whatever _this_ is.

“You need to rest,” I state firmly, willing my voice to be still. I can feel the weight of his eyes on me, pinning me to the stairs. I know he’s searching for evidence, watching me. Finding all the clues that give me away. Picking apart my defenses, peering into the darkest parts of me.  “Let’s just--we have a long way to go,” I add, begging him to just _agree_ with me. Just this once, Sherlock. _Do it for me._

“It would seem so.”

Those four words nearly take my feet out from under me. The intensity behind them, the ferocious truth of just how far we have to go to find some kind of homeostasis between us, in this new version of our lives--it fills my chest with such an ache. A wish for the future, fear of what it might bring but hope that it will be what we want and need.

Gathering strength from God knows where, I straighten my shoulders and tighten my grip on him. I’ve made it through worse before. I’m a Captain. I went to war, **goddammit**. _I can do this._

“Ready? One step at a time. We’ll get there, Sherlock.”

He sighs deeply above me, body slumping against mine. “Of course we will, John. We’re in this together.”

As we take the steps slowly, his weight is grounding while his words twist and repeat in my head.

 _We’re in this together_.

That’s the story, isn’t it? Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, _in this together_.

We reach the landing after what feels like a lifetime. Leaning him on the wall, I grab my keys to unlock our flat. He limps into it, taking the few short steps to the sofa before spilling on it, flopping unceremoniously onto his stomach with a groan. I can barely hear him as he mumbles into the cushions, “I’ll take some tea now.”

My feet are frozen to the threshold of the flat. It’s been 8 months since I’ve stepped foot in here, and _nothing_ seems different. There are piles of paperwork everywhere, books stacked in corners, dust on every surface--it’s all the same. I feel disconnected from reality; this could be any other day in my life before... _before_. And yet it isn’t. It can’t be. We’ve had a lifetime apart between then and now. With a deep breath and a nod to myself, I take that first step back into our flat. A glance at Sherlock reveals a single grey eye under the mop of dark brown curls, cheek still pressed into the leather--watching me. Waiting. _Expecting_.

I hold his gaze for a moment, feeling the weight of the still unsaid words between us, and force a small smile before turning towards the kitchen to make tea. As I walk between the back of my chair and the kitchen table, I’m shocked to see piles of mail covering it.

“Mycroft didn’t forward your mail for you?” I ask, fighting to keep the bitterness from my voice.

Silence from the couch. _Asleep?_ Unlikely; refusing to answer. _Fine, Sherlock. It’s all fine._

The ritual of making tea calms me--nothing has changed. Literally nothing; the kettle is still in the same place, the tea bags are the same, even my mug…

 **_My mug._ ** One of the few things I took when I moved--a simple, white mug with the Union Jack on the inside. It shouldn't be here. Nothing that I took with me should be here, and yet _here it is_ , in my hand at Baker street.

“Sherlock, my mug is here.”

A huff from the couch. “Of course it’s here. You live here,” he responds, bored.

Moving to stand behind my chair, I argue, “I took it with me. When I moved out.”

“So you did,” he replies calmly. He’s placating me, refusing to engage. He’s hiding something, I can feel it.

“What else of mine is here?” I ask, realization dawning. I set the mug down and cross my arms, immediately feeling aggressive. Anger flares inside me at his lack of response; his dismissal of my concern. As usual, he fails to see the problem, like the idiot he is. Slowly, he lifts his head completely off the couch to stare at me. His face is statuesque, impassive. A mask.

It only adds fuel to my already raging fire.

“I thought--it seemed easier,” he finally replies. He sounds like a child defending a poor decision, hoping for mercy. Penitent, in a way.

My ears are hot, the blood pounding heavily in them. Around me, the room loses focus as I grip the back of my chair and stare at the ceiling. I can’t look at that face, _his_ face, with those pouty lips and narrowed eyes. With that expression full of too much emotion and yet not enough. I can’t, right now. _I just can’t._

The whistle on the kettle goes off, breaking the loaded, tense silence and bringing me back to the present. Avoiding his gaze, I pick up my mug and head back into the kitchen.

“John,” he calls after me, worried.

“Not now.”

He waits a moment before replying, “There’s fresh milk in the fridge.”

 _Of course there is._ I prepare our cups and walk over to him, setting his down on the coffee table. As I turn away, about to go to my chair, I hear the creak of the leather cushions adjusting.

“John...sit. With me.” A pause. “ _Please_.”

Months ago, I would not have hesitated. Then again, months ago he would never have asked.

 _We’re in this together_ , he said earlier.

The mug clunks as it hits the coffee table. The leather crinkles beneath me as I settle. Sherlock sighs as he rests his head on my lap. And I breathe as I place one hand in his curls, stroking them gently while I drink my tea.


	11. Baker Street: Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taking me a bit of extra time in between updates--each chapter is encompassing so much ground and they are increasing a bit in size to accommodate all of the story stuff that needs to happen. Thanks for your patience and continued support!! <3

Stepping under the too-hot spray of the shower feels like a benediction. It hits my back first, sliding down the crease between my shoulder blades before falling with large splatters on the floor of the tub. The water runs down my legs, soaking the bandage wrapped around my thigh and stinging my wound. I realize I forgot to ask John if I could get the stitches wet; _irrelevant_.

As the knots in my shoulders begin to loosen, I consider the task washing my hair will be. It’s still tangled, crunchy, and disgusting from the conductive gel and exfoliant used with the electroencephalography cap, and I’m torn between my urge to have a clean scalp and how repulsed I am knowing how it will feel under my fingers the moment when the water hits it. With a deep breath, I tilt my head back and let the water pelt my hair, congealed blobs immediately slinking off my curls and plummeting loudly around my feet. A deep, guttural groan crawls up from my chest, and there’s a shift in the floorboards in the hallway in response.

 _Of_ _course_. There’s John. Stalwart, concerned John, standing outside the bathroom door. Listening. Waiting. **Ready**. I consider letting him stand there. I could pretend I don’t know, allowing him this protective moment. Holding his secret for him, _with_ him, in the darkest places behind my aching ribs.

 **_No_**.

He’s been keeping everything to himself since I awoke, and it’s tearing him to pieces. I’m tired of hiding from him. Tired of _him_ hiding from _me_. I’m tired of walking on eggshells, tired of feeling unsure. We both _know_ what we want. We’ve said it, **dammit**. Well, _basically_ said it. But he’s too fragile to take charge right now, and I’m too impatient to wait. _Waiting is_ **_hateful_** _._

“ _You_ _know_ , if you came in here you could at least sit down on the loo,” I call loudly. “Would give your leg a break.”

Silence from the hall. He’s frozen outside the door as evidenced by the distinct lack of retreating footsteps.

“John, don’t be absurd.”

Continued silence. _Irritating_.

“If I fall you won’t be able to help me from outside the door.”

Though it’s challenging to hear clearly, I can make out the faint sound of a resigned sigh before the doorknob turns with a _snick_ as it unlatches. As always, the _doctor_ wins. I can make out his fuzzy outline through the shower door as he walks over, the toilet seat clunking when he plops down. The sound of the shower again fills the room, occasionally broken as I run my fingers over my head and the water falls to the tub with a splat.

Finally, he clears his throat. “I’m not…”

The hot water stings my chest, leaving a red flush in its wake. I wait for him to finish, even though I know what he won’t say. _I’m not going to look._

I _want_ him to look. I want to respond, to beg, to plead. **_Please_** , **_John_**. _Look_ at my naked body. Take me in your arms and tell me that you _want_ me. Tell me _how_ _you_ ** _need_** _me._ **_Look at me and tell me._**

He won’t say it, and neither will I. _Not today._

“I know,” I reply instead. My tone is harsher than I want and most of me doesn’t care. I imagine the expression on John’s face--irritated to hide his hurt. I glance his direction and take in his stance. His shoulders are slumped and his arms are crossed, leaning back against the tank of the toilet. I turn back towards the spray and a hissed ‘ _fuck!’_ escapes my lips as the water pelts my wounded thigh.

“You okay?” he asks automatically.

I bite back the moan as the pain continues, my voice strained. “ **Fine**.”

“Let me--uh...you sure? Did you--what’s happening?” he stammers, warring with himself over his instincts to take care of me and his discomfort with the current _situation_ between us. A glance over my shoulder towards him reveals how he’s shifting restlessly, crossing and uncrossing his legs.

“The bandage is soaked and it’s sticking to my stitches,” I explain, deliberately leaving _out_ the graphic description of the amount of pain it’s causing me.

John groans, exasperated. “You didn’t take the bandage off? _Sherlock_ ,” he scolds. “You’re not supposed to leave it on.” He’s disappointed in me. _Fantastic._ Annoyance swells in my chest with a tight burn, prickling up the back of my neck and making my ears hot.

“Well, my _doctor_ was _too_ _afraid_ to be in here to help me,” I snap while I rinse the conditioner out of my hair. “I was clearly unaware.” I look around and realize I didn’t grab a clean flannel, so used to my former routine that I forgot I haven’t lived here in 8 months. “John? Would you mind?” I throw my hand over the shower door, palm up. “I forgot a flannel.”

His form, blurred by the shower door, is stock still. His fists are clenched, resting on his thighs, and his back is ramrod straight, face turned towards the ceiling. _He’s angry,_ I realize. Something I said must have set him off. “John?” I repeat.

“I’m **_not_** _afraid_ ,” he says venomously, refusing to look at me. “Respecting your privacy is _not--_ ”

“Flannel, _please_ ,” I interrupt.

As he slaps one roughly into my hand, he insists, “ _No_ , don’t change the subject, Sherlock. This is important--”

“This line of conversation is _pointless_. Neither of us will concede, John,” I argue, squeezing soap onto the cloth and lathering it quickly over my shoulders and chest. “You know that as well as I. Hence, irrelevant. Useless. _Et cetera_.” As the soap runs down my stomach and trails along my inner thigh, it works itself under the bandage. The sharp sting causes me to gasp, another muttered curse escaping my lips.

“Sherlock,” John says angrily.

I lean over, bracing myself on the wall for support while I attempt to wash my legs and feet quickly. _I want this to be over,_ I think with a deep ache of anxiety in my chest. I don’t want to argue with him right now. The idea of slamming my bedroom door in his face and retreating to the solitude of my bed is the only option that makes sense at the moment. I stand up too quickly and the sudden shift in position causes blood to rush from my head, vision clouding with black spots. Before I know it, I’m swaying dangerously forward. My hand slips and I scrabble to stop the inevitable fall, dropping my cloth with a splat. I land on the floor of the tub with a thump, smacking my shoulder against the faucet hard enough to break the skin.

**“Sherlock?!”**

The door to the shower slides open suddenly. Blinking away the water running into my eyes, I look up at John’s strong figure framed in the doorway for a moment, the light from the ceiling behind him casting a shadow on his face and highlighting the broad sweep of his shoulders.  His firm hands reach down to hook under my armpits pulling me into a seated position against the wall. He turns off the shower and brings his attention back to me, his gaze quickly scanning my body for damage. His eyes linger briefly on my injured and bleeding shoulder and pointedly avoids my groin while he assesses. I don’t bother to hide the effect his stare has on me, desire curling low in my abdomen and settling between my legs.

“ **Dammit** , **Sherlock**! Did you get dizzy? Can you see and hear me okay? Did you hit your head?” he asks, concern rapidly flooding his features. His hands float over me, touching lightly as he checks for hidden injuries. “Answer me, please. Tell me where you’re hurt.” He presses gingerly on my shoulder, making me wince. “ _Well_. Aside from here.”

“Just there. Didn’t hit my head, just moved too quickly and blacked out. _I’m fine_ , John. Would you just--I’d like to stand up,” I say quietly, reaching up to support myself. A twinge of pain from my thigh shoots up into my groin and down to my knee as I shift, and he offers his hands to me at my grimace. I glance up at him through my dripping hair and watch as his eyes flick down my wet, nude body, this time settling directly on my obvious arousal. He licks his lips, a deep rouge creeping up his cheeks. After another moment of staring, he makes eye contact and frowns, coughing with embarrassment.

“Sorry, I--,” he starts, grasping my hands firmly and pulling me upright. We’re standing close, our hands still clasped between us and feet separated by the tub wall. I can hear his breath catch, see his pupils dilate, and feel his pulse flutter beneath my fingers under the thin skin of his wrists. He licks his lips again and swallows roughly.

Unconsciously, I lean towards him, mouth brushing against the outer shell of his ear, and murmur, “I don’t mind.” He shivers and closes his eyes, breath caught in his lungs. The effect I’m having on him is obvious, yet I find myself looking down for visual confirmation. His jeans are stretched taut across his groin, and the sight of it wrenches a moan from me, rumbling low in my belly. As I pull back to look at him, his eyes are still squeezed shut, a pained expression across his features. “John.”

“Hm,” he hums, refusing to open his eyes.

“John, _look_ at me,” I command, voice throaty and low.

He shakes his head once, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. His grip on my hands is firm, yet I can feel him shaking.

 _That’s it._ **_I’m not waiting_ ** _anymore._

Closing the distance between us, I press my lips against his gently, immediately feeling the tickle of the hair from his mustache. John’s hands squeeze mine reflexively as he gasps into my mouth. Taking advantage, I slip my tongue past his lips to taste him, the sweet honey and bitter tannins from afternoon biscuits and tea washing over my taste buds. It’s coupled with an aroma that’s _distinctly_ **John** \--an amalgamation of his convenience store cologne (British Sterling), the fabric softener in his clothes, his inexpensive cedar scented soap, and the deep musk that I’ve always found comforting and familiar about him. I release one of his hands, threading my fingers through his hair and cradling the back of his head with my palm. He leans into my touch, opening his mouth wider for me and I eagerly deepen our kiss, leisurely rubbing my tongue against his. There’s a growl of pure need in the base of his throat as he grabs my hip bone and pulls me to him roughly, pressing our chests together. John’s heart thuds heavily with mine for a moment before he yanks himself away, panting.

“Jesus, Sherlock...you’re still... _Jesus_ ,” he says, breathless.

I lean in again, nipping at the exposed skin just above his shirt collar. “Problem?” I ask before tracing the line of his jugular up to his jawline. An involuntary gurgle escapes his mouth as his eyes slide shut, breath catching again.

After a few seconds of giving in to my wicked tongue, his hands come between us, pushing me away gently. Not a rejection; just a pause, a moment to catch his breath. “Can you...maybe wait to kiss me until you have some pants on?”

It’s impossible to hold back a snort of laughter. “What for? This is much more efficient.”

He barks out a laugh, shoulders shaking with suppressed giggles. “More efficient? _How_?”

“ _John_.” He _must_ be joking. It’s obvious what I’m referring to, isn’t it? “You can’t possibly tell me that you _don’t_ know what’s going on right now.”

John’s chin dips, eyebrows shooting to his hairline in mock irritation. “ _There_ it is-- _that’s_ the face, that one _right there_ ,” he says, leaning back to point at me.

“What?” I ask with a glare. He’s confusing me. I _hate_ being confused.

He smiles, looking both teasing and fond. “I missed _this face_ so much, Sherlock. You…,” he pauses to clear his throat, eyes glistening while he cups my cheeks. “You have _no_ _idea_.”

The flood of dopamine at his admission drowns my senses, blanketing me in a heavy warmth that settles in my very bones. The world around us dissipates. All I feel is his calloused, strong hands on my face, thumbs lovingly stroking the coarse beard hair under my cheekbones. His eyes pierce my own, and for the first time since seeing him in the warehouse, bruised and bleeding, the weight of unsaid words between us feels _right_. It doesn’t matter that we aren’t saying them aloud, not in this moment. We are holding them between us, secrets that we share only with each other like the quiet, warm puffs of breath shared in the dense silence of a night beneath silken sheets.

We _will_ say these words to each other one day, but for now _this_ is enough.

An involuntary shiver makes its way up my spine, pulling us both to reality. John blinks and looks down. “ _Christ_ , Sherlock, you must be freezing. Step out with your injured leg first so I can support you. You’ll be less likely to slip that way,” he instructs. “If you need help drying off, I can…,” John trails off, eyes wandering down my nude body again. “I can help,” he finally finishes, voice rough with desire.

I nod at him and grasp his shoulders, taking my first step out of the tub. He feels steady beneath me, supporting all of my weight as I pull my other leg out. Twisting away from me, he grabs a towel from the back of the bathroom door and wraps it around my shoulders, rubbing my biceps to warm me up and dry me off. I would never have allowed this before, even knowing my feelings for him, yet in this moment I find it soothing. It’s the same as the comfortable air we held between us on Sunday mornings, drinking coffee and reading to ourselves. The sunlight would stream in the windows, warm sunbeams falling across our bare feet as Rachmaninoff lilted quietly around us, broken only by the turn of the page or the ruffle of newspaper. Neither of us felt the need to speak--in fact, we would hold these soft moments in reverence, doing all that we could to protect them. I have missed this feeling, the feeling of _home_ that I could only find with John, just as much as I’ve missed the adrenaline of the chase and the thrill of the puzzle only _we_ could solve.

“There,” he says, bringing a hand up to brush my hair out of my eyes. “Warmer?” I nod once, eyes caught tracing the various lines of his weathered face. “Hm?” he asks.

“John Watson, you are the most handsome man I have ever seen,” I reply, my voice barely above a whisper. “I have missed your face easily as much as you’ve missed mine.”

Embarrassed, he coughs and rubs the back of his neck, fighting back a pleased smile. “Um--,” he starts, pausing to clear his tight throat. “Um, good. Good. I’m...glad. For that.” The tips of his ears tint the slightest pink as he blushes, and he fidgets restlessly and seems suddenly much younger, more vulnerable. If it weren’t for the towel draped around my shoulders I would take him in my arms and run my hands up and down the muscled planes of his back. I would trail my fingertips along the edges of his shoulder blades while humming against his neck, revealing the depth of my love for him. Instead, I smile until he looks up at me and smiles back. He nods, then pats my arm. “Come on, then. I need to examine your leg and shoulder see what damage you’ve done to them. Let’s get you dressed.”

“John, at this point I think it would be absurd for us to act as though I’m ashamed of your gaze on my body,” I argue, rolling my eyes dramatically.

John takes a deep, shuddering breath and steels himself, jaw working as he swallows. “Yes. However, I need to…” His eyes roam again, pausing at my pelvis as they have several times already. “I need to be able to focus and I don’t trust that I can if you aren’t at least wearing pants, Sherlock.”

I huff out an exasperated, ‘ _Ugh, fine_ ’ sigh and push past him into my bedroom, limping slightly. Water drips from the gauze around my thigh, large droplets rolling long trails down my legs and onto the rug. Pausing in front of my wardrobe, I’m surprised that a set of determined footsteps haven’t followed me yet. “John?” I call as I whirl around to face him, framed in the doorway to my bedroom.

He shifts, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. There’s a concerned frown on his face as he stares at the floor, feet seemingly adhered to the lino in the bathroom. “I’ll just--um…” More uncomfortable fidgeting. A hand swiping across the back of his neck. Kiss swollen lips pursing into a moderate pout of uncertainty.

“ _For God’s sake, John_. I’m not asking you to have intercourse with me immediately. Despite my overwhelming pride and frankly impressive physical prowess, it _is_ probable that I _am_ going to need your help getting dressed. You’ve been staring at me for the past fifteen minutes; now is hardly the time to act childish about it. Will you enter my bedroom, _please?_ It’s most certainly _not_ the sacred shrine you so _obviously_ make it out to be. You can sit on the bed. I promise to give you _ample_ warning before attempting to mount you.”

My lips twitch, holding back a smirk as John’s face cycles through varied reactions to my soliloquy, ranging from mild offense to irritation to finally, embarrassed shock. He meets my gaze, and upon seeing my chin waver and the mischievous glint in my eye, works at restraining his own laughter. He fails, naturally, and before long we’re both giggling helplessly. It feels familiar, releasing tightly wound adrenaline in this way with him. A flash of times passed. Moments of _what if_ , hovering electric in the air between us.

“You’re just winding me up,” he accuses, shoving lightly at my shoulder as he passes.

I catch his wrist and grin, looking down at him through narrowed eyes. “No, John. I _will_ warn you, rest assured. It may not give you much time to respond, however. Best be prepared,” I recommend with an exaggerated wink. His pupils dilate immensely and he takes a deep, stuttering breath through his nose before shutting his eyes, grounding himself. I release him and return to my wardrobe, choosing a pair of pants and a simple white tank top.

“All right, get your shirt on and I’ll help you with your pants,” he directs, retreating back into doctor mode. “And let’s take a look at those wounds, hm?”

* * *

_Ring ring ring ring ring_

“Sherlock?” John asks when I’m unwilling to move. A quick glance reveals the source of our interruption.

**> >Incoming call: G. Lestrade**

“It can wait,” I state, turning my head towards John’s belly. His lap is a warm and comfortable pillow, and the fingers threading through my curls and tickling my scalp are too irresistible to abandon for the Detective Inspector. The ringing stops, and I inhale deeply, losing myself in John’s scent. Two minutes pass, and then--

_Ring ring ring ring ring_

“Sherlock, it might be important. He’s calling again,” John insists, hand pausing on my head. I let out an irritated grunt and press into his palm, willing him to continue his ministrations. He refuses, patting my shoulder. “ _Sherlock_.”

The ringing stops again, and I sigh happily. Nothing will take me out of this moment with _my_ _John_. After some irritated, muttered curses, he cleaned and redressed my wound, bandaged my shoulder, ordered takeaway, and settled with me on the couch. We’ve since finished our food and with bellies full, have taken to reclining comfortably with each other. All evidence of our previous tension has dissipated in lieu of this newfound understanding between us. John’s fingers again continue their stroking and my eyes slide shut. I could sleep like this. (If I slept.)

_Ring ring ring ring ring_

“BLOODY HELL!” Whipping my head up, I reach for my phone, intent on hurling against the nearest wall. John startles, hands thrown into the air with a panic-stricken look on his face. As I glance down to hit the “decline” button, the name on the screen sends ice through my veins.

**> >Incoming Call: Mycroft Holmes**

“What?” I snap, answering it.

“Brother mine, it’s rude to ignore the Detective Inspector of New Scotland Yard when he calls,” he replies smoothly. “We need to talk, Sherlock. I hope I haven’t found you in a...compromising position.”

Pinching the bridge of my nose with one hand, I sit fully upright, clutching the phone tightly in my other one. John stares at the ceiling, fists pressed down onto the tops of his thighs and breath whistling noisily in and out of his nose. I watch his chest rise and fall sharply, discomfort pooling low in my gut as I realize he’s fighting off a sympathetic nervous system reaction to my outburst. Channeling my anger outward, I command harshly, “ _Out_ with it, _Mycroft_ , or I’m hanging up and smashing my phone. What then?”

Mycroft lets out a long suffering sigh. “ _Sherlock_ ,” he warns. “This is serious. We’ve received a message, from--”

“Moran,” I finish for him, my voice thick with venom. At the name, John’s head snaps down to stare at me, eyes wide with fear.

“Precisely. I’ve done what I can, but you know I so rarely am involved in _field_ work these days. We require your particular knowledge of the criminal psyche to give NSY a direction to head in.”

Meeting John’s terrified gaze, I reach out to touch the back of his hand. He whips it away, the color draining from his face. A quick shake of the head and he’s off the couch, fleeing to the bathroom. The door slams behind him and I hear the muffled sound of retching seconds later from down the hall.

“I’ll be there in an hour. Don’t send a car,” I reply, pulling the phone away from ear.

“Sherlock--” I hear as I’m about to press the ‘ _call end’_ button.

Reluctantly I bring it back up. “What?”

“I’ll come there. I don’t think it’s wise for either of you to leave Baker street at the moment,” he says quietly.

Rage fills my chest, making my heart pound and ears throb. “No. You will _not_ bring anything related to that _monster_ into **our home**. If you refuse to let me leave, come here in a car and I will examine it downstairs with you.”

“One hour,” Mycroft replies matter-of-factly before the line goes dead.

Tossing my phone down, I stride quickly down the hall, dressing gown fluttering behind me. “John? John!?” I call, pounding on the door. “John, let me in, _please_. **John**!”

Another retch, then the flush of the loo. “Go _away_!”

“John, no, I--I can’t. _Please_ , John, let me in,” I plead, pressing my hand flat against the door. “John…” My knees buckle beneath me at imagining him collapsed on the floor, shaking with fear and pale as a sheet, silent sobs wracking his body. I ache to hold him, to keep him in my arms and reassure him that I’m here. _He’s safe._ I’ll protect him, no matter what.

“John... _please_ …”


	12. Artwork of the Kiss!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beta_Jawn drew this stunning piece of our boys finally having a kiss together. Look at Sherlock's naked bum! And John's gorgeous Disney Prince hair! I'm dying, y'all.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155469010@N02/41009785994/in/dateposted-public/)


	13. Baker Street: John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Without giving anything away, I just want to say that this chapter is a huge turning point for our boys, and I am really excited about it!  
> Also, John surprised me in this chapter quite a bit. I had a whole different track planned and BAMF John swooped in and changed everything on me!   
> Enjoy and thanks for your continued support!! Also, Happy Easter for those that celebrate it. :)
> 
> Some Trigger warnings (milder than previous chapters/parts for sure):  
> Blood  
> Flashbacks  
> Panic attack  
> Arguing

**I'm dying** , surely I'm dying. I can't think! _Why_ can't I think? Moran is here, he's **_here_ ** and I'm going to die. I was on the couch with Sherlock, and then he was gone and _Moran_ was there, grinning that sick, dead-eyed grin at me. I'm choking on the stifling, copper tinted air around me and the acidic sting of bile, _choking_ and _gasping_. I can't breathe, I can't think, I can't see, I--

**_BANG BANG BANG_ **

The world is crashing, splintering, cracking, _collapsing_ around me. He's _coming_ for me, he knows I'm here! My stomach empties for a second time, throat burning and chest aching.

 _“_ **GO AWAY**!”

_Go away go away go away go away--_

_“Let me in!”_ Moran shouts, venom in his voice. I can't, I can't! I can't let him in, he’ll kill me. He wants me dead, he wants to hurt me and torture me and kill me. He wants revenge for what I did to him. For _beating_ him. He’ll get me, and then he’ll get Sherlock, and everything we’ve worked so hard for will be _lost_ , _broken_ beyond repair. I can’t let that happen. I won’t let him get me. I won’t let him _ruin_ us.

“John!”

That sounds like--

“John, it’s me, Sherlock. Move away from the door, I’m coming in!”

The room shifts sideways as I have the startling realization that I’m home at Baker street, in the loo, and that Moran is _not_ here. The blood drains from my face, leaving it cold and tense. I’m laying on the floor, shivering uncontrollably. My muscles are weak, quivering like jelly. I can feel my chest heaving beneath me, gasping for air like a fish out of water. My vision is blurred and filled with dark spots from hyperventilating. Fingers tingling, I swipe the back of my hand across my mouth to wipe the spittle collected by my beard after vomiting. The world seems surreal--the lights above the vanity are too bright, the sound of the toilet tank filling is too loud. Everything, everywhere--it’s _overwhelming_. My body aches from too much tension, the lactic acid from such intense adrenaline settling in my muscles as if I’ve been running for an hour.

A crash nearby startles me into near panic again. I scramble across the floor, throwing my back against the tub as Sherlock comes bursting through the door. It swings wildly on its hinges, smacking into the wall and leaving a hole from the doorknob in the horsehair plaster. My flatmate looks insane; his hair is wildly sticking out on all sides of his head, errant curls flapping as he scans the room, deducing everything that’s happened since I’ve been in here. His robe is sliding off one of his shoulders, the belt hanging from a single loop and pooling on the floor next to his bare feet. I can hear his breath whistling erratically through his nose--he’s nearly as panicked as I am. He slowly sinks to the floor into an awkward crouch, taking extra care to protect his wounded leg. Once he reaches the floor, he keeps his distance from me, a single hand reaching out with an open palm, attempting to soothe me as if I’m a frightened animal, trapped in a cage.

_I suppose I am._

“John...are you...how can I…,” he trails off, face softening into something like pity as he stares at me. I feel the familiar flare of anger at feeling so vulnerable and shrink in on myself. If I could collapse into the space between my ribs I would, just to hide from that stare.

“Fine, I’m _fine_ , Sherlock--” I argue, running my fingers through my hair. My nails drag along my scalp a bit too hard, but I can’t be bothered to care.

“John,” he interrupts, glaring at me. “Stop hiding from me. _Please_. I’m here. Let me in, John.”

I draw my knees up to my chest and bury my face in my forearms--I can’t keep looking at him while he’s watching me _like that_. Speaking to my feet, I respond, “Just a panic attack.”

His feet shuffle across the lino as he moves a bit closer and rests a tentative touch on my hand. Though I flinch, I fight to keep it in place. Every instinct in me is screaming to _move_ , to _flee_ , but I know that’s just my overactive amygdala. I need to stay here. I need to breathe. I can’t run from him, not now. Running will only make things worse for me and...for us.

“ _Obviously_. I know what a sympathetic nervous system response looks like, John. What do you…,” he pauses, searching for words. “How can I help you with it?”

_You can’t help._

_Leave me alone._

_I can handle this._

_Go away._

**_Go. Away._ **

_Go…_

“I don’t know, Sherlock. I just--” My breath feels wrong in my lungs, expanding my aching chest and shaking my core. “I just need a minute,” I finally finish, glancing up at him. He’s sitting on the floor in front of me, fingers still resting on the back of my hand. The set of his shoulders is tense, his spine ramrod straight as his eyes flick restlessly over my body. _Deducing_. Searching for answers, worried about how to best care for me.

He cares _so_ much, and part of me hates him for it. I’ll never be able to have a simple relationship with this man, this _genius_ , and the thought simultaneously terrifies and excites me.

Sherlock clears his throat, face shifting from sympathetic concern to boredom. “Mycroft is out of his depth, as usual,” he says with an eye roll. Retreating to the familiar territory of annoyance with his brother, abandoning this still sensitive and raw air between us.

Not abandoning--taking a break from it. _I’ll join you, Sherlock._ **_Thank you_** **.**

I nod slowly, catching his attention. “So he’s seeking the services of the world’s only consulting detective,” I reply with a false smile. He snorts in response. “When?”

A flick of his hand, dismissive. “An hour.” He glances at his wrist watch and purses his lips, “Well, 47 minutes at this point. Downstairs.” The expression on his face changes from put-upon inconvenience to uncertainty as he considers his next sentence. Years of living with Sherlock taught me to notice body language, and it’s clear he isn’t sure he wants to tell me something.

I don’t bother hiding the long-suffering sigh escaping my lips as I demand, “Out with it.”

Sherlock’s razor sharp gaze flicks to mine, eyes unblinking. “He doesn't want us leaving Baker Street right now.” He says this carefully, quietly, as if afraid he might spook me.

“Hm,” I hum noncommittally. The fact that Sherlock is abiding by his brother’s command frightens me nearly as much as the clear threat from Moran.

“So...he’s going to bring the message here and we will discuss in his car. All of his vehicles are bullet proof, explosion proof, et cetera. Shouldn’t be too risky,” he shrugs, doing his best to look nonchalant. He can’t fool me, though. The muscles on his neck are taut, and his jaw is clenched. Clearly concerned.

“I'll be fine by then.” Automatically, my shoulders straighten, drawing on hidden reserves of crisis management. The involuntary trembling in my muscles has subsided, and the familiar flood of positive adrenaline spreads through my bones like wildfire. I can do this. I won’t let him go it alone, not with this psychopath.

His head cocks ever so slightly to the side, face deliberately blank. “No.” He moves to stand, withdrawing his hand from mine and shifting his feet underneath him to stand.

Before he can get off the floor, I’m on my knees and snatching at his dressing gown to keep him with me. “No? Sherlock?” I search his face, confused.

A frustrating expression crosses his features, lips turning down and eyebrows furrowing. He looks _disappointed_. “You know what this is about, John. I can handle it without--”

“ _Without_ _me_?”

“I can _handle_ it,” he reasserts, his voice losing its usual warmth. He yanks his robe out of my hands and stands quickly, a single eyebrow raised as he stares down his nose at me.

Never one to be submissive, I pop up off the floor and set my stance: arms crossed, feet shoulder width apart, shoulders squared, chin raised. “Now hold on a minute, it's about me too. Don't think you can just shut me out of it!” I argue. He stands his ground, face still a carefully constructed mask of impassivity. He blinks leisurely at me and continues holding himself as still as possible--his usual defense when he doesn’t intend to give in but is avoiding a clear confrontation.

His refusal to engage infuriates me, and I stalk closer to him, pointing at his chest. “ **No** , **stop** **it**! I'm not made of bloody glass Sherlock. Remember what happened the last time you kept me out of the loop?! I'm not going through that again!”

Suddenly I’m pushing through the crowd on _that day_. I’m shoving, forcing my way through all of these awful strangers surrounding him, keeping me from him.

_“I’m a doctor, let me come through. Let me come through, please.”_

Everything is stopping me, and he’s dying! Sherlock is _dying_ , head smashed to pieces on the pavement. His blood is oozing out, soaking into the ground, carrying him with it to hell.

_“No, he’s my friend. He’s my friend. Please.”_

“John--” I hear him, muffled, through the veil of the flashback. A light pressure on my shoulder--tentative, unsure. I shake my head and my vision clears. I’m back, and he’s here with those narrowed eyes, _seeing_ me. Seeing _all_ of me. He knows, I think. **He knows** just like the psychiatrist at the hospital knew, only he can’t do anything about it.

There aren’t any pills to make trauma disappear.

Shrugging off his fingertips, I throw my arms out, planting my hands on my hips. He flinches back, outstretched hand wavering in the air before it drops back down to his side to toy with the frayed edge of his dressing gown. His face is the same--worried and watching. Waiting for the outburst. Ready to react. I breathe, willing my heart rate to settle before we continue. While raging at him feels cathartic, I know he won’t have a proper fight with me the way I want him to. _Stonewalling_ , the therapist at the hospital said. That’s what he’s doing to me--he’s refusing be a part of this conversation with me because he’s afraid of the confrontation.

It’s fucking **bullshit** , is what it is. Anger swells in my chest, twisting my guts into knots as I decide I’m not giving in to him. We are having this fight whether he wants to or not.

“No, Sherlock. **No**. You’re not getting out of this one. You know damn well that if I lose you again I won't survive it. You can't do this to me--you can't want me and then toss me aside whenever I'm too inconvenient for you. If you are choosing me, you're choosing _all_ of me and you don’t get to lie to me to try to scare me off. Don't you get it, you idiot?!”

I swear to God if he keeps staring at me like that I may just kill him myself.

With an exaggerated sigh, I’m shouting louder than I expect or intend to, “I’m in love with you, Sherlock! Hopelessly, helplessly in love with you and I am not going to let you get away with ignoring it!”

 **_Shit_**. Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit--

My palms are clammy and sweating, the back of my neck prickling with the creeping heat of embarrassment at my confession. I shut my eyes and inhale shakily through my nose, fingers trembling against my hip bones. When I look back at him, part of me is surprised he hasn’t fled the bathroom yet. The other part knows he’s rooted to the spot, terrified.

He isn’t even blinking. Still. _Just_. Staring.

“God I hate you so bloody much sometimes, you know that?! Will you just **say something**?”

In a flash, he’s taken a large step closer and is towering over me. Our chests are nearly touching, and I can feel his breath fanning out over my face as he looks down through half lidded eyes. “I have been in love with you since the first time you saved my life, John Watson. You will never be inconvenient to me. I _have_ chosen you, and I would do it a million more times if it was asked of me. I am sorry for every second of pain I have ever caused you. I cannot guarantee I won’t do it again, but I will make a concerted effort to limit it to the times that are out of my complete control.”

As he talks, his hands come up to hover above my shoulders, hesitating to touch me again after my previous rejections. My heart pounding, I rock up onto the balls of my feet and press my lips to his roughly, off center and full of teeth. His hands finally settle with digging fingernails, grasping me and pulling me against his chest as I reach up and wind my own in his hair, tugging in a show of my desperation to be closer, _closer_. A pained groan rumbles behind my ribs and he responds in kind. The room is suddenly too hot and we’re stumbling awkwardly towards the doorway to his bedroom, open mouthed kisses becoming frantic across cheeks, jawlines, throats. His hips are glued to mine, the hard length of his cock straining within his pants and pressing against my lower abdomen.

A flash of our earlier conversation pops into my head--47 minutes until Mycroft arrives. Which was easily 20 minutes ago. _Fuck._

“Your brother--” I gasp as he sucks on my pulse point, hands snaking up my shirt to tug at my nipples.

“ **Can wait** ,” he breaks contact to reply, successfully guiding us out of the bathroom and over to his bed. I give in for a few moments longer, drowning in the sensations of his mouth, his lips, his tongue, his fingertips and palms, his insistent erection and muscled thighs--I never imagined I might be on the receiving end of his attention _like this_. All of the intensity he throws into a case, magnified tenfold and directed at _me._ It’s overwhelming, and I know that if I don’t stop it now, I’ll succumb entirely.

As the backs of my knees hit the mattress, I reluctantly place my hands on his chest and push gently, separating us. Breathless, he grumbles and rests his forehead against mine, fingers still splayed over my chest under my shirt, but the rest of his manic energy stilling substantially. “ _Can’t_ wait,” he whispers sadly. He huffs out an exasperated sigh and withdraws, taking a step back.

“Sherlock, I...you know I want to, right?” I ask, leaning forward to wrap my hand around his bicep, thumb stroking the muscle. “Probably better to wait until we can take as much time as we like, hm?”

He frowns, irritated, before suggesting, “Sentiment?” in his rich baritone.

Smiling up at him, I respond, “Sentiment,” with a nod.

Sherlock leans down to press a soft kiss to my cheek before turning away and stalking to his wardrobe, flinging the doors aside to find some suitable clothing for our upcoming meeting with Mycroft. It never fails to surprise me the moments that he chooses to keep appearances when compared with the stubborn petulance he so often displays. (The “sheet episode” at Buckingham Palace comes to mind.)

Sinking to sit on his bed, I watch as he removes his dressing gown, hanging it on a hook inside his wardrobe. The lines of his back are exceptionally defined from the past eight months of intense field work and less than adequate nutrition. My gaze is drawn to the cords of muscle in his neck, rolling over each other as he shrugs into his purple button down, snapping the collar into place. He finishes buttoning it and pulls a pair of trousers out with a sigh. “Will you?” he asks quietly over his shoulder, indicating the slacks in his hand with a cock of the head.

“Happy to.”

Following our stumbling, awkward attempt at getting him fully dressed (interspersed with a creative variety of curses from both of us), we find ourselves standing at the doorway to exit the flat. Mycroft texted moments ago to let us know he'd arrived and was expecting us, yet neither of us seem intent on breaking open the relative safety of Baker Street. The entire atmosphere has changed between us, settling somewhere in the middle of nervous excitement about this new dimension of our relationship and the comfortable familiarity we held before everything happened.

I glance his way as he looks towards mine, and we hold each other, unspeaking and untouching, for the space of several breaths. There has never been a human on this planet that I could share such nonverbal understanding with until I met Sherlock.

Finally, he clears his throat and nods. “Ready?”

I reach for the door in response, opening it for him and announcing, “Once more unto the breach, yeah?” As he takes his first step out onto the landing, I lean back into the flat and snatch my cane off the hook. He’s going to bloody need it after this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We will find out what Moran said in the next chapter. I know many of you were dying about that cliffhanger in the last chapter. Having our favorite psychopath return is certainly stressful. As I said, John surprised me and shifted the focus for this chapter so we had to deal with the outcome of that first. I already have a good chunk of the next chapter written, so the next update will be quick. Thanks for your patience!!


	14. Car on Baker Street: Mycroft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the POV shift--this is Mycroft's chapter! I do so love writing Mycroft. Such a different vibe!
> 
> Triggers:  
> PTSD symptoms of: increased startle, panic, irritability, possible flashback or intrusive memory alluded to  
> **Not nearly as intense as previous chapters; John's getting a bit better at recognizing it and trying to keep it together!
> 
> Glossary:  
> Amygdala: the part of the brain that handles threat response and can cause panic attacks  
> Sympathetic Nervous System: the "Fight or Flight" portion of the central nervous system  
> Subdural Hematoma: burst blood vessels below the skin (hickey LOL)  
> Oxytocin: the endogenous hormone responsible for love and bonding, released during orgasm, after giving birth, etc  
> Vasodilation: when the capillaries get more blood to them, resulting in blushing

Well now, isn’t this interesting? Seems my brother and the good doctor have made amends, at least partially, going by the proximity with which they are approaching my vehicle and the clearly obvious affection in their eye contact. No more are the awkward glances and tense shoulders--these two are settling into something resembling comfort with each other yet again.

John has brought his cane-- _curious_. Concerned, no doubt, about Sherlock’s ability to make it up the steps to the flat upon the completion of our meeting. Also, Sherlock clearly did not dress himself judging by the creases in his shirt at the waistband of his trousers; he always tucks in, then smooths the front so it lays flat. Not so, today. _Today_ he had assistance from the inexperienced hands of his companion. He must be in more pain than he let on when he left the hospital. _Of course_ he is. Heaven forbid he _actually_ act like a human being for once.

And, _there_ it is, the most fascinating piece of evidence in this entire presentation--a subdural hematoma on John’s neck, right below his left ear. Sherlock, being right handed, leans right naturally when he provides physical contact. Judging by the coloration and mottling, this particular _love bite_ occurred less than thirty minutes ago. Neither of them are showing the lingering flush or pupillary dilation associated with a sexual liaison and the resulting oxytocin, so it seems they stopped themselves in favor of meeting with me. _Hm_.

The sudden influx of chilly February air fills the vehicle as the door whips open and they slide quickly in on the bench my opposite. Sherlock meets my eyes, a scowl crossing his features immediately.

“What?” he snaps defensively. Obviously responding to the smirk I don’t bother keeping from him as I let my eyes linger for a moment too long on John’s neck. “Mycroft!” he barks angrily. A glance back at him reveals the creep of vasodilation high on his cheekbones, his fingers tapping nervously on his knees. I flash him a knowing smile and reach over my seat towards Anthea; now is not the time to tease my little brother. There’s a war to be fought.

“Dr. Watson, it seems your recent captor has taken a liking to you,” I comment, handing Sherlock the envelope I acquired from New Scotland Yard this afternoon.

John blanches briefly before replying, “That’s surprising. I thought I made it clear how I felt about him when I put a bullet in his kneecap.”

Sherlock, in the midst of snuffling noisily along the paper, snaps his head up as John talks. “What did you say?”

“I said I made it clear how I felt about him when I put a bullet in his kneecap, Sherlock,” comes the unwavering reply. John crosses his arms on his puffed out chest, clearly pleased with himself for this course of action. The satisfied smirk tugging at the corners of his lips crinkles the skin around his eyes. For a moment, he looks nearly happy, and it’s obvious the emotion is a stranger to him in recent months. As he watches Sherlock’s reaction, however, his smile fades and eyes darken substantially.

A confused blink from my brother, and then another. “You shot him.”

“You were dying, and I was angry,” John defends, frowning. “Don’t see what the problem is?” He cocks his head to the side, forehead wrinkling as he eyebrows raise in irritation. Sherlock narrows his eyes in response, clearly intending to see this topic through, despite the dangerous and daring tone in John’s voice.

Bored with the current track of conversation and disinterested with playing audience to the fireworks, I interject, “ _Yes_ , well. So you did. Moving on to more _pressing_ matters, then? I’m _sure_ your domestic can wait.”

Through gritted teeth, my brother says, “It _matters_ , Mycroft. Moran is a psychopath, and before the incident at the warehouse his sights were set on me. I am the person who last saw Moriarty alive, and so he clearly blames me for his death. Now, though...now he’s had a personal slight to shift his focus...to John.” He flips the envelope up with a flick of his fingers, address label facing us.

_To: Doctor John Watson_

_℅ New Scotland Yard_

“So, the message is for me, specifically?” John asks, his face screwing up into a scowl as he takes the envelope in his hands and turns it over to examine it. Sherlock watches him, unblinking, before pulling his bottom lip into his mouth to worry it between his teeth. _Nervous_ , then. _Fascinating_.

Clearing my throat, I turn away from my brother to address the good doctor. “It would seem that way,” I say quietly. He turns it over again and looks to Sherlock, seeking approval. He nods, and John pulls open the flap to withdraw the message within. Having already read it myself, I turn to look out the window, observing the pedestrians entering and exiting Speedy’s. _Married, but both are having an affair. New baby at home, needs coffee for the wife before they kill each other. Petty thief, mostly steals wallets on the tube._ **_Pathetic._**

“Read it to me. **Exactly** ,” I hear Sherlock demand, his tone sharp with the laser focus he uses for deductions. Without looking at him, I imagine his fingers steepled in front of his face, index fingers resting against his upper lip while he stares at John with piercing, ice blue eyes.

I hear the flap of the paper being unfolded and the cough from John before he starts reading in a tired monotone, working to keep the tune out of his voice as he recognizes the song:

 _“Every_ **_breath_ ** _you take, every move you make, every bond you_ **_break_ ** _, every_ **_step_ ** _you take--_

**_I'll be watching you._ **

_Every_ ** _single day_** _, every_ ** _word_** _you say, every_ ** _game_** _you play, every_ ** _night_** _you stay--_

**_I'll be watching you._ **

**_Oh can't you see?_ **

**_YOU BELONG TO ME._ **

_My_ ** _poor_** **_heart_** ** _aches_** _, with every step_ ** _you_** **_take_** _._

 _Every_ **_move_ ** _you make, every_ **_vow_ ** _you break, every smile_ **_you fake_ ** _, every_ **_claim_ ** _you stake--_

**_I'll be watching you.”_ **

Bringing my attention back to my companions, I watch them stare at each other after John finishes reading the message. Their eye contact is loaded, intense. Clearly a nonverbal discussion about the inherent threat to John in the document, and the need for a battle plan. Sherlock’s face is twisted up into an expression somewhere between pained and confused, fingers drumming anxiously on the car door as he no doubt flies through every possible iteration of what this message means and what he can do about it to protect his beloved John.

 _Beloved._ They’ve said it aloud, clearly. _Oh, Sherlock. I hope this time it won’t end with another list._

Breaking the thick silence surrounding us, John comments bluntly, “Those are song lyrics. From The Police, yeah? _Bit_ **_creepy_** _, that,_ ” as he stares down at the paper in his hands. He scratches at his eyebrow and purses his lips as he considers the meaning of it before glancing up at both myself and my brother expectantly. “Any ideas? You two are the geniuses here, clearly you’ve got something to go on.”

Sherlock whips his head around and demands suddenly, “That’s all of it?” His voice is high and tight, a bit too loud for this small space. He’s on the edge of panic, realizing how dangerous this situation is.

“Yeah,” John replies with a quick nod. To an untrained eye, he might seem calm, yet that’s hardly the case. He’s as tightly wound as my brother, judging by his fist clenched on his thigh and the way he’s working his jaw, just shy of grinding his teeth. The air around us hums with their anxiety. It’s _suffocating_.

“There’s nothing else? You’re sure?” my brother nearly shouts, earning him a warning glare from me. He rolls his eyes in response. _Typical_ . He reaches for the letter, snatching it out of John’s hand recklessly. The soldier inhales roughly through his nose, nostrils flaring as he focuses on containing his mounting frustration with Sherlock’s behavior. How he manages living with him is beyond me. “And what does the Met have to say about this, Mycroft? I’m sure _Graham_ has some hilariously _wrong_ ideas.”

“ _Greg_ ,” John bites out through gritted teeth. Sherlock’s only reaction is a dismissive wave of his hand as he stares at me, awaiting my response. His toes are tapping restlessly on the floor, the only clear indication of his ratcheting impatience.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade’s team tracked Moran’s path from the warehouse for quite a while until it’s clear he got into a car. He obviously had help, as the injuries from Doctor Watson’s _thorough_ assault would have made it nearly impossible for him to move that distance on his own. I have crews looking at the CCTV from that time and tracking the path of the vehicle that picked him up to ascertain his current whereabouts,” I explain. Anthea peeks over her shoulder at me from the front seat before returning to her Blackberry, face carefully composed. No updates then.

“Who was helping him? John? Did you see?” Sherlock asks, eyes flicking over to him. John remains quiet, his lips pressed tightly together as he fights with his amygdala, breath moving rapidly in his lungs. Despite my usual rule of remaining detached, watching him war against himself stirs something high in my throat, making it difficult to swallow and my mouth uncomfortably dry. _Sentiment_. Clearly my affected brother is rubbing off on me.

Deigning to save John from Sherlock’s continued insensitivity with the mania of a case, I comment, “He was receiving aid from Charles, who was an employee of mine until recently, unfortunately. Charles alerted Moran that you were indeed alive and returning to London once it was clear John...needed help.” At the mention of his name, John’s eyes pop open to stare at me, pupils dilated and eyes glazed over with barely contained fear. He’ll be lucky if he makes it out of this car without having a full blown flashback or panic attack. While I’m aware that he’s no stranger to post-traumatic stress disorder and its effects, I can’t imagine he welcomes the symptoms. It’s _exhausting_ and incapacitating at its best. At its worst, it can be downright dangerous.

Sherlock, completely absorbed in the details of the case and therefore ignoring his companion, continues forging onward, flying through his racing thoughts with alarming speed. “Moran is clearly targeting you, John. Initially, he was only interested in you because of your connection with me and the correct assumption that he could use you as bait to lure me out of hiding. Now, however, he is hyperfocused on you, whether because of your assault on him or some other unknown reason linked to your time together. It looks as though he will continue to threaten you until he enacts whatever revenge he feels you deserve. But what of this letter? _Most bizarre_. Perhaps there’s a code, something embedded within the message?”

Tuning him out, I glance out the window again. A light drizzle is falling, causing the pedestrians on the pavement to scurry quickly into shops, door stoops, and cabs to escape it. A few unaffected individuals brave the rain, striding purposefully forward and glaring at those who attempt to avoid it with disgust. An analogy for those of us who walk the battlefield in London. In front of me, John’s calmed significantly as Sherlock rambles on, examining every angle possible to deduce the motive behind Moran’s behavior. I catch the doctor’s eye and smile politely before commenting, “He won’t sleep for days, you know.”

John returns my smile with a lopsided smirk. “I know.” Something unspoken passes between us--a fondness, a brotherhood of the men who tolerate and, at times, admire my brother and his ridiculous quirks. A new understanding.

“Shut up, both of you. **I’m thinking!** Come on, John. There’s nothing more we need discuss with _him_ and I can’t have you two _conspiring_ against me,” Sherlock states nastily, throwing his collar up against his neck and shifting to open the door. “Inform me of anything new.”

“Of course. Oh, and Sherlock?” He pauses to glare at me. “Think of Redbeard.”

“Must you _always_ bring that up?” Sherlock demands petulantly, his nose crinkling in irritation as he steps aside to give John space to stand up.

“Only when it matters, brother mine,” I reply coolly before he slams the door and does his best to stride away despite his obvious limp, coat flapping dramatically in the wind behind him. As they reach the doorway, John stretches to hand his cane to Sherlock, who keeps his own hands thrust into his coat pockets and glares back. John insists, and finally Sherlock relents and takes it before making his way awkwardly up the steps to the flat while his companion grabs the post from the next to the door and heads up behind him, no doubt positioned to catch my brother should he fall.

I am grateful that Sherlock allows John these simple gestures of care. He’s always neglected himself terribly. If I believed in fate, I might concede that he’s spent his life in need of a doctor like John.

I watch as the pair make their way upstairs, moving slowly, until the light goes on in their flat. Sherlock paces, agitated, in front of the windows. He pauses every third pass to stare down at the car, clearly wishing I would leave. While I can’t see into the kitchen from this angle, I expect that John is making tea, hoping it might calm my brother. It won’t, and he knows it, but he’ll still try. There’s comfort in ritual. They could both use some comfort, as could I.

“The usual, sir?” Anthea asks from the front seat, detached. Her voice startles me from my musings and reminds me that there’s a war on.

“The usual,” I agree, glancing back up at the windows. Sherlock’s taken to playing his violin; Bach’s _Adagio_ from Sonata for Violin Solo No. 1 in G Minor. I can hear Anthea typing out the commands on her Blackberry with a rapid series of button clicks, ordering the five deep security squads to Baker street. Implementing the cordon at either end of the block. Placing snipers in the windows surrounding the flat, with their sights aimed on the door. I pull out my own phone to send a reminder to John.

**> >Send Message: John Watson**

**> >Don’t leave the flat without informing me. Mrs. Hudson will be returning this evening. **

**> >Keep him safe, John.**

The reply is nearly instantaneous; John’s clearly disconnecting from Sherlock’s intensity by checking emails and reading the news on his mobile. I can hardly blame him. Sherlock’s black moods are all encompassing and rarely leave those around him unscathed, regardless of their involvement with him.

**> >Incoming Message**

**> >I’ll do what I can. You know what he’s like.**

**> >You better leave before he throws something out the window onto your car.**

“Anthea,” I say quietly. She nods in my periphery and the car shifts gears and pulls away from the curb, heading back through the maze of London’s chaos to our offices, our haven.

Smiling to myself, I set my mobile down and reach for my umbrella, spinning it in my hands before leaning forward to rest my chin on it. So many pieces to this puzzle, so many players to consider. If John is truly Moran’s target, my brother will tear himself to shreds attempting to stop anything untoward from happening.


	15. Baker Street: Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John are making some excellent progress together. ;)

This is **humiliating**. I cannot believe John brought _the cane_ downstairs with us. I hadn’t even noticed. I was too involved in dealing with Mycroft. _Irritating_. I never would have missed that before. Clearly my observational skills are clouded by my physiological deficits at the moment. Though, to be honest...it _was_ helpful having the cane for the stairs. John certainly could have assisted me again, but I suppose not relying _completely_ on him is reasonable, albeit _annoying_.

Mycroft still hasn’t left yet, his car idling near the curb below. No doubt ordering the battalion to protect us and ensure we _follow the rules_. **Loathsome.**  Glaring down through the windows, I roll my eyes dramatically before continuing with Bach’s _Adagio._ If he doesn’t leave in the next three minutes I will seriously consider throwing a chair out the window.

“Tea?” John asks me while I sway around the flat, playing my violin and navigating the web of information surrounding Moran and our recent interaction. I pull open the door in my Mind Palace to the Moriarty wing--it’s full of names, faces, locations, various crimes that I’ve linked to them and ones I know are related but I have yet to connect the direct line. And, of course, the triple locked, padded room where I keep Moriarty himself for those times I need to dissect his twisted brain. I will not be opening that room today. This isn’t about him--this is about Moran and his unusually strong and concerning interest in _my_ John.

As I’m internally flipping through a stack of files, looking for the London boltholes that I’ve already tied to the criminal network, I’m startled back to my surroundings by a firm hand on my forearm. Blinking rapidly to clear my vision, my eyes finally focus on John, standing in front of me.

Why is he so interested in you, John? Why the sudden shift? _I don’t understand._ Psychopaths are typically more rigid--they find their target and they see it through to completion (murder, usually). What happened to change his course?

Oh. _Oh_ , **_right_**. He held John captive. They _interacted_.

Something _happened_ between them.

“Yes, or no?” John asks me, an irritated expression on his face. His hand is still on my arm, eyes wide. I can feel the familiar threads of annoyance rolling off of him, twisting in the air between us. It tries to settle between my shoulder blades and deep in my belly, but it’s easy enough to fight off in lieu of my intense hyperfocus on the case. That’s all that matters at the moment. Emotions are fleeting with enough persistence. “ **Sherlock?** Are you _listening_ to me?”

“I need you to tell me what happened while Moran held you captive. Describe all of it _exactly_ for me,” I demand, ignoring his questions. I set my violin down and stalk across the room to pace, fingers steepled beneath my chin. I need distance between us--his proximity threatens to weaken my resolve, my _focus_. Can’t waste energy on the desires of the transport.

John sighs, dropping his forehead into his hand before plopping down into his chair. He picks up his cup of tea (must have been what he was asking me about) and takes a small sip. It’s still slightly too hot; he winces before setting it back down. “Sherlock...no. Not...just not right now. I--,” he pauses, sighing again and hunching back into the cushions. “I need a break from _all this_.” He waves his hands around vaguely before dropping them back to his lap, his shoulders slumped and affect flat with defeat. He attempts another drink of his tea, lips pursed in a tiny “o” as he blows across the top to cool it down.

Halting, I glare across the room. “But _John_! **The** **case**!” I don’t understand. A _break_? A break _from what_? From _me_? What does he mean? Why isn’t he helping me? He knows the threat, he understands how dangerous Moran is--why is he just sitting there _drinking his bloody tea_?!  

I’ll appeal to the science behind it. He’ll agree with me and then he’ll give in. “John, memory is _highly inaccurate_ as it is; I need you to be able to recount with as much clarity what happened so I can deduce where he is, or where he _might_ be. As time goes on your memory will start to fade, will start to blend with your imagination, and it will make it even harder for me to find him before he comes for you,” I plead, not bothering to hide the desperation I feel.

He meets my gaze, face softening when he sees how distressing this situation is for me. I need to protect him, to keep him safe from this monster. He’s obviously so affected by what happened between them--perhaps if I understood, if I _knew_ , I could not only find the bastard but I could be more sensitive to what triggers him. I _refuse_ to let Moran keep his talons in John’s mind any longer.

“I know, _I know_. Just...I **need** a break. _Please_ , Sherlock,” he begs. I can feel it surge through my body, weakening my knees and making my stomach churn. He’s been through so much-- _we’ve been through so much_ \--and I wish we could escape the reality that’s threatening to drown us. The moment we found some peace together, some level of comfort...it was ruined. We need more time. There is too much left unsaid, _undone_ between us.

But...the Work. The Work comes first, and he knows it. We both know it, even though neither of us wants to admit it right now. The urge to abandon everything, lock the door, and sweep him up into my arms is overwhelming. Oh, John. There has never been anything on this planet to rival the Work, and yet _here you are._

**I need a cigarette.**

“John--,” I start, trying to focus my pinging thoughts into something coherent. “I…” None of my thoughts sound _right_ at the moment. It’s _infuriating_. I cannot seem to force my feelings to align enough with adequate verbiage--stupid, _stupid_! Instead of continuing to speak, I stare, blinking rapidly and clenching my fists at my sides. Restless agitation sends sparks through my muscles, filling my chest with an annoying hum.

John contemplates the ceiling for a moment before dropping his head down onto his shoulder, breathing deeply through his nose while we lock eyes. He looks exhausted, and just _so done_. “Will you just...ugh, come here, okay?” he requests, beckoning me over with the wave of a hand.

“What?” I ask, confused. My feet are heavy, rooted to the floor with uncertainty while my heart hammers into my ribs.

He waits a moment, then slaps his hands down on the arms of his chair and pushes himself to stand. “ **Fine** , I’ll come to you, **git** ,” he affirms with a nod, striding purposefully over to me in a few quick steps and grabbing me by the biceps. His thumbs stroke soothingly on the inside of my arms while he peers up into my face, the golden strands of his hair shining from the lamplight nearby. The serious expression on his face fades as his tongue peeks out between his lips and wets them slowly. I feel the crackle in the air around us, _between us,_ and suppress a shudder. The effect he has on my physiology is uncontrollable, and I find myself not minding in the slightest.

John clears his throat and continues, voice dropping to a deep rumble that I can almost feel more than hear. “ _Right now_ , I don’t want to think about _any_ of that. I don’t want to remember what he did to me, what Charles did to me, how I felt, _any of that_ ,” he shakes his head, jaw working for a moment as he clears his thoughts.

A hand snakes up to twine in the curls at my nape while he continues, “Just-- _I just need you_.” He lets his other hand slowly smooth sensually down my arm before winding his fingers with mine. “Your _hands_ …,” he trails off, taking a half step closer to me and pressing our bodies together from chest to thigh. “...your _body_ against mine…” The thrum of want that has been threading its way through my core since the shower flares again, settling between my legs as I feel his answering hard heat pressed against my groin. He rolls his pelvis against mine, then pulls our hands behind his back to place my palm on the swell of his arse. He reaches up to trace a line along my jaw with his index finger, the touch heady and seductive despite its chastity. My breath catches as I stare down at him through half lidded eyes, vision hazy with desire at his confidence. _Captain Watson_ makes my brain short circuit in ways I never knew were possible, and I _love_ it.

With another gentle but demanding rut, he beseeches, “Remind me that I’m _here_ right now. Get me out of my head and _let me be here with you_.” I don’t bother keeping the loud moan from crawling out of my throat, my eyes sliding shut involuntarily while my knees wobble under his touch. He takes it as an invitation to start trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses along my jawline, his fingers tightening in my curls to hold me still against his onslaught.

Panting, I gasp out, “I... _yes_ , John. **Oh** , **yes** ,” while he sucks on _the spot_ , that deliciously sensitive spot just below my earlobe, his warm breath echoing in my ear. I can feel my core trembling as he holds me in his arms, firmly supporting nearly all of my weight as I give in completely. All thoughts of the case, of Moran and his threat, dissolve into wisps of smoke as John continues to show me just how much he needs to forget his trauma and focus on our bodies, _hot_ and _wanting_ , pressed against each other and _desperate_ for friction.

His free hand yanks roughly at my shirt, working to free it, while he licks a trail along my clavicle, pausing to dip his tongue in my suprasternal notch before continuing onward. Warm, calloused fingers find their way up the planes of my stomach, stroking my ribs before wrapping around one of my already peaked nipples. The sounds erupting from my mouth are utterly wanton as he twists and tugs at first one, and then the other.

“Bedroom. **Now** ,” he commands, biting my shoulder sharply through my shirt and twirling me around to face the hallway. Holding me by the hips, he marches me down to my bedroom, pausing when my thighs touch the mattress. His wandering hands are on my torso, undoing the buttons of my shirt while warm, damp puffs of breath bathe my neck. His tongue traces the shell of my ear, making my head drop back onto his shoulder as I drown in the multitude of sensations he’s overwhelming my body with.

“Fuck, **Sherlock** ,” he breathes onto my trapezius, resting his forehead on my neck. “You have no idea what you do to me…” John molds himself to me, rubbing his rigid erection against my arse and groaning at the contact. His hands find their way to my hips again to hold me steady while he grinds into me, breath coming in needy gasps. My own hand trails down my abdomen until I reach the edge of my trousers and pinch open the button, then slide down the zipper. Shimmying my hips, I begin pushing my bottoms over my arse and down my thighs, moaning as the cool air kisses my exposed skin, increasing my sensitivity.

There’s a growl behind me and before I realize it, John has me facing him and he’s yanking his own trousers and pants down in one go, giving me an expectant expression while he does so. “Joining me?” he asks sarcastically as he stands and tugs his shirt over his head.

John Watson, the love of my life and best friend in all the world, is standing in front of me entirely nude, _on purpose_. Vulnerable, open, willing... **for me**. He’s sharing himself with me, giving himself _to me._ I’m staring, and I do not care in the slightest as I memorize every inch of his glorious skin. From his broad, muscled shoulders, past the puckered flesh of his scar, down the lean planes of his abdomen, through the coarse hair trailing below his belly button to his hard, _beautiful_ , purple-rose cock.

**_Mine._ **

“Hope you’re not having second thoughts?” John jokes with a lopsided smirk while I shrug out of my shirt.

Lunging for him, I reply, “Don’t be an idiot,” and throw him onto the bed before slowly lumbering over him, taking care with my injured leg. “I was merely admiring you and revelling in the fact that _you are_ **_mine_** **,** John,” I purr, yanking his wrists above his head and capturing his mouth with mine. The kiss is urgent and sloppy, broken by quick gulps of air and muttered curses of passion as our bodies rub against each other, his back arching off the bed to find me. With my free hand I stroke his flank, gripping his hip bone tightly as I rock into him. The contact is enough to make my eyes flutter shut, the beginnings of ecstasy throbbing through me.

John drags his teeth along my bottom lip, then pulls away. “You--ahh, oh, _fuck_ , Sherlock--you are--but I want--” Squirming beneath me, he twists his wrists out of my grasp and flips us over easily, his strength evident in his sweat-slicked muscles as they bulge in his arms and shoulders while he pins me. Dropping his head to my chest, he sucks one of my nipples into his mouth, laving it rhythmically with his tongue and causing zings of pleasure to spark straight down to my already aching cock.

Heat continues curling in my core as I throw my head back, clutching John’s shoulders and whimpering at his onslaught. I’m barely aware of his fingers as they trail down my body until they wrap around the base of my erection, squeezing and twisting as they slide up the length until the palm of his hand rubs over the head of my cock, slick with beads of arousal.

“Oh, _oooohhhh_ , _God John_ \--”

He continues stroking me slowly, almost torturously, until my muscles are tight and trembling and my thighs are quivering, the tension causing shockwaves to shoot in all directions from my injury, yet I’m too far gone to care. Unable to get a full breath, I’m reduced to a panting mess by his wicked hand on my cock and delicious mouth alternating between my nipples, whines and whimpers the only sounds I’m capable of making as he tears me apart. Finally, I feel the familiar flutters of building orgasm low in my abdomen, my balls heavy until suddenly, _gloriously_ , I’m cresting the wave, convulsing beneath him and coating us both.

My heart is pounding against my ribs and my fingers are tingling as I anchor myself to his presence, mind drifting hazily in a sea of endorphins while he mutters soothing adulations to my skin. As my thoughts slowly coalesce, I’m aware of the slow rut of his hips against me, his neglected cock rubbing along my inner thigh. The slick trail he leaves sets my blood afire.

 **_“Mine,”_ ** I growl, cradling his head in my hands and pulling him up to lick into his mouth. He groans, a heady, pained sound as he thrusts harder against me, desperately seeking _more_. Releasing his head, I reach down between us and drag my index finger from the tip of cock down to his balls, eliciting a prolonged hiss from between his teeth.

“Sher--fuck, _Sherlock_ , I--I **_need_** **\--** ” he gasps out, his eyes squeezed shut. Nipping the side of his neck, I encircle him tightly with my hand in response. He cries out, his muscles pulled taut as he continues to hold himself above me while bucking into my fist, fucking himself on me. His breath comes in short pants as he nears orgasm, huffing hotly in the air between us. A drop of sweat falls from his forehead onto my neck and rolls down along my jugular. **_Oh, God!_ **

He’s close. I can see it in the red, blooming flush from his cheeks down to his peaked nipples. I can feel it in the shake of his muscles, straining with the tension of walking along the line without crossing it. I can hear it in the involuntary whines, the growls in the back of his throat as he struggles to breathe.

“John, open your eyes,” I arch up to whisper in his ear. “I want you to look me in the eye while you come. I want to see your brain shut down and your mouth go slack and hear the sounds you make while I claim you. Let me in, let me have you completely, John.”

Time stands still the moment our eyes lock. It’s the briefest of moments, merely a second, yet it stops and allows us to bare our souls to each other. Then, the clock ticks forward and he’s lost in the sensations of orgasm with a shout, his eyes dimming and body trembling as he paints stripes of ejaculate on my abdomen and chest. He collapses soon afterwards into my arms, head heavily resting on my shoulder while his breathing slows and heart rate settles.

There’s a hint of a kiss on my skin, and then a quiet, “God, that was _extraordinary_.”

I smile into his hair with a hum, the memory of the first time he ever called me extraordinary flashing behind my eyes. When we laughed about it in the cab, it was the first time I had genuinely laughed in nearly 6 months, despite having only just met him the day prior. Here we are, almost three years later, lying naked together after having fantastic sex and he’s _still_ calling me extraordinary.

“Of course it was extraordinary John, we were both involved. Anything we do together is bound to be _brilliant_ ,” I retort with a smirk.

His body shakes in my arms with muffled laughter, filling my chest with the warmth of adoration. “Anything except realize we’re in love, yeah?”

“We got there eventually,” I comment, absentmindedly running my hand up and down his tricep.

John rolls onto his stomach in the circle of my arm and lifts his head to peer at me with an amused expression on his face. “Mrs. Hudson had us pegged on day one, you know.”

I snort at the memory of her bringing up the second bedroom and John’s mild indignance at her innuendo. With a shrug, I reply, “Having a life like hers tends to make one observant.”

“Hm.” He drops his head down onto my chest, letting it rise and fall with my breath. A few moments pass, the room silent except for the sounds of our breathing and occasional splashes of raindrops against the window. Lifting his head, he clears his throat and continues, “I do love you, you know. I’m...I’m sorry for how hot and cold I’ve been. I’m...trying.”

Bringing my hand up to run my fingers through his hair, I smile down at him. “Obviously.”

“I’m...I just…,” he trails off, at a loss for words. He rolls onto his back next to me, staring up at the ceiling and sighing in exasperation with himself. “I just--”

Propping up onto my elbows, I interrupt, “Do you still hallucinate?” He takes a deep breath in, his eyes sliding shut. His pulse flutters under the thin skin of his throat, rapid and unsettled. The air between us changes, growing thick with electrified tension.

“What?” John finally asks quietly, his voice tight as he lifts his head off the pillow to stare at me. His eyes darken substantially, face growing weary as he shuts down, closing himself off. The vulnerability he offered me before is withdrawn with the hard set of his jaw and the clench of his teeth.

“Do you?” It’s now or never, John. We need to get this out in the open so we can move forward. “I’m tired of avoiding it, of acting like it isn’t happening. Please, just...tell me about it,” I plead, reaching to lay my palm over his heart. He flinches when I touch him, but doesn’t pull away like I fear he might. The rain continues outside, picking up in speed and beating at the window. The wind howls against the brick, filling the room with its eerie cries. The clock near my wardrobe ticks one hundred and thirty seven times before he finally relaxes against me, dropping his head down and letting his breath go with a slow, shuddering sigh.

“No. Not since the hospital,” he tells me with a broken voice. “Not since the meds.”

Rolling onto my side, I contend, “But you have flashbacks,” while trailing my fingers through the coarse blonde hair on his chest. Avoiding my gaze by staring out the window, he nods slowly.

“Yeah...I do. Not all the time. The medication...it won’t stop that. I have to manage it in other ways.” There’s a flash outside the window, followed by the crash of thunder loud enough to rattle the entire house. Below us, I can hear Mrs. Hudson’s yelp as she rushes to grab one of her many trinkets from plummeting off a shelf. The room illuminates again as another bolt of lightning flies across the darkened sky, the storm raging on. If I were prone to metaphor I might compare it to our lives as they stand currently--safe within Baker street while chaos surrounds us, trying to force its way in. _Abominable._

“Would catching and killing Moran help?” I suggest, planting a soft kiss on his shoulder.

Turning to face me, he threads his fingers into my curls and smiles. “Possibly.” Some life returns to his eyes, the glint of mischief and steel sharpening his gaze. “Probably,” he adds with a smirk and the twitch of an eyebrow.

Grinning against his skin, I reply, “Good,” before settling back down next to him and pulling the duvet and sheets over us. Our breathing relaxes while we lay together, listening as the rain lulls us back into the familiar silence of each others’ company. As my eyelids grow heavy and my vision blurs, exhausted with the events of the day and the stress of external threats, he shifts against me and clears his throat to speak.

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

John laces his fingers with mine, squeezing tightly. “Don’t leave me behind. _Ever_.”

Blinking up at the ceiling, I squeeze back. “Okay.”

He licks his lips and coughs. “I mean it, Sherlock,” he adds firmly, a hint of _Captain Watson_ in his voice.

“I know, John. I won’t. We _will_ catch Moran together,” I reassure him, rolling to wrap my arm around his torso, our legs twining together under the duvet and silk sheets. His muscles loosen, the tension finally leaving his body completely as he melts against me with a contented hum.

“Okay. Good. Let’s get some rest. We both need it if we’re going to catch that bastard tomorrow,” he whispers, voice nearly drowned out by the thunderstorm ravaging London.

“Mm,” I agree in the moments before the world fades away into nothing but black, filled with the sounds of the rain pelting the windows, the thunder breaking open the sky, and the clock ticking.

 _I could do this._ I could be with John, together in every way, _forever_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally finally finally!!!


	16. Baker Street: John

The grey light of early dawn peeks through the window, bathing the room and casting soft shadows on the ceiling. A few moments pass before I wake up enough to realize that I’m not in my own bed; the window is in the wrong location, and the sheets feel too soft, too silky.

I’m in Sherlock’s room.

I’m in his _bed_.

We had **sex** last night.

And it was _bloody_ _brilliant_.

Rolling onto my stomach, I press my face into the down-stuffed pillow and inhale the complex scents of Sherlock’s hair product, the musky sweet smell of sweat, and the lingering aroma that is distinctly _sex_ and _come_. Stretching my arm out, I twist my fingers in the sheets and sigh. Sherlock isn’t in bed. My chest aches, my stomach dropping with the automatic fear that he regrets our actions last night. That I’m too much of a _distraction_ for him. That the sentiment is clouding his judgment, slowing his thoughts and making him sluggish.

_All that matters to me is the Work. Do you see?_

He _needed_ a distraction last night. We both did. His sanity was bordering on mania, stuck in his Mind Palace searching for solutions without nearly enough data and playing a harsh, wretched-sounding piece on his violin. The theme song to his desperation. Watching him made me a bit sick, even though I’ve seen him like this a million times before and I expect I’ll see him like it a million more times. Last night was different, so different, though. **So different.** The intensity was ratcheted up beyond levels I’m familiar with. The way he paced and glared, agitated, frustrated, and…

Worried.

_Sherlock was worried._

And, he was unsure, which worried him (and me) even more. He’s not supposed to be the unsure one; that’s my role in this relationship, yeah?

With a groan, I roll onto my back and stretch, feeling it all the way in the arches of my feet and between my toes. Letting my head loll to the side, I notice Sherlock was kind enough to shut the door when he got up. Oddly considerate for him. He’s the loudest thinker on the planet--erratic shouting, bouts of discordant violin music, stomping and pacing, walking on top of furniture.

_Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end._

Maybe he did it so I wouldn’t hear him leave.

No, he promised me.

Wouldn’t be the first time he’s broken a promise to me.

**Stop it.**

Another groan and I’m out of the bed, rolling my shoulders and cracking my back as I shake the last bit of sleep from my bones. My clothing, which should have been littered all over the floor after I pulled it off last night, is folded neatly and stacked on top of the wardrobe. The sight of it gives me pause; Sherlock must have done it. Another oddly considerate thing, especially for him. Snatching my pants off the top, I yank them on and consider the rest of my clothes before shrugging and heading to the doorway. I hate wearing clothing twice. Reminds me too much of being on tour in the desert, where water may as well be gold and washing clothing more than once a month is a luxury only afforded by the wealthy elite.

Bracing myself, I open the door and listen.

The flat is silent.

He _did_ leave without me.

I blink against the burning prickle in the corners of my eyes and square up. I need to have some coffee, a shower, and to get dressed before I head off after the madman and beat him soundly for betraying me _again_. I’m sure Mycroft has an eye on him. No need to rush. Striding down the hallway, I take the left turn into the kitchen and--

“Shit! Shit shit shit!”

“John! Are you alright?”

Rushing over to the sink, I turn on the cold water tap and throw my hands under it, the burn from the coffee that splashed all over me immediately relieved. I hear the _thunk-slosh_ of the mug on the table and look over my shoulder at Sherlock, who is standing stock-still with an alarmed expression on his face, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

“Fine. I’m fine. Was that--”

“Yes.”

The heaviness that had settled into my bones a few moments ago lifts and is replaced by a spreading warmth that makes my stomach do flips and my lips draw up into an involuntary grin.

_Sherlock Holmes was bringing me coffee in bed._

This is a very different ‘morning after’ than what I expected.

“Thank you. Sorry for buggering it up,” I say with a quiet chuckle. “I didn’t hear you.”

His eyes narrowing, he chimes in flatly, “You thought I left.”

Turning off the tap, I reach for the kitchen towel to dry off before assessing the state of my burn. Minor--the coffee was barely above drinking temperature. He must have waited until it was just right before deciding to bring it over to me so I could drink it right away. Hm.

“I--” I start, feeling guilty about how little trust I placed in him this morning. He’s being so thoughtful, so... _different_ , and here I am, doubting it. Doubting him. Doubting _me_. It’s not fair. Distrust feels involuntary, like slamming a foot on the brake to avoid an accident even when you’re not the driver.

“John, I won’t leave. Not without you,” he insists, stepping around the table and taking my hands gingerly in his to examine them. “I promised.” He presses a kiss to each of my sensitive palms and smiles.

Sherlock is trying so hard to be what I need him to be, and my heart feels like it’s breaking open as I stare at him, the realization washing over me. He’s standing in front of me, expression tender and loving despite his sharply tailored suit and perfectly placed curls, begging me to trust him without speaking. It’s in his actions, in his body language, in his eyes. He’s still Sherlock Holmes, the insufferable, petulant man-child who will wreck our flat in search of his cigarettes or in the throes of a particularly challenging case; but now, right now, he’s my lover, and my friend.

_And he cares._

Giving him a lopsided grin, I nod. “I know you did. Old habits die hard, eh? Especially when you’re an old man like me,” I joke.

He releases my hands with a scoff, face drawing up in a ridiculous expression. “Go shower, old man. I’ll make you a new cup of coffee, since you so perfectly ruined the last one. Once you’re dressed we will talk about the case. I have my eye on a night out at Angelo’s.” His eyes light up before he twirls me around toward the bathroom, patting my arse as he shoos me down the hall.

* * *

It is amazing how a shower seems to wash even the thickest weariness from my bones, leaving me feeling renewed and relaxed. As promised, there's a new mug of fresh coffee on the side table by my chair, the steam drifting lazily in the sunbeams illuminating the room. Sherlock is a statue, fingers steepled in front of his lips, in his chair. There's some quiet violin music playing in the flat, something I don't recognize. Plopping down, I pick up my mug and meet Sherlock's gaze.

“Ta. Do I know this song? It's not familiar,” I ask before sipping on my perfectly prepared coffee. Sherlock stares at me, unblinking, as he taps his fingers together in succession. It’s difficult to tell whether he’s heard me or not. “Sherlock?”

A shake of the head, a few quick blinks, and his eyes gain focus, finally _seeing_ me. “John. Tell me what you remember of Charles,” he states calmly.

“Well, I was drugged. And drunk, and...not myself. I don’t remember much,” I reply, disappointed. “He was large, blonde, and brutal. He seemed to delight in the pain he was causing me. A brute, probably has been a grunt for someone much smarter for most of his life. Different from Moran. Moran was…” My brain takes me back to that night, in the damp warehouse, my pants filthy and torn, soaked through at the knees. The room dark, lit by a few odd bulbs hanging on wires, swinging wildly as my captors moved nearby. Charles, laughing; no, **cackling** , crazy with bloodlust and larger than life while he beat me senseless.

And then, _Moran._

Moran, who looked me over like a piece of meat and liked how my blood tasted. Moran, who wanted to hold my attention but failed, and who lashed out when he jealously realized it. Moran, who smiled with wicked, blood-stained lips and prowled around me like a panther with his quarry in sight.

Moran was different. Different from Charles, different from Moriarty, different from every criminal we’ve ever come into contact with. They all _want_ Sherlock (like I do) or they all hate him. Not Moran, though. He wanted to kill Sherlock until he met me, and now he’s _after me_. Why? I’m not the genius. I’m not the detective. I’m not even bloody _interesting._

Sherlock clears his throat, his eyebrows raised at my contemplative silence. “Moran was…?” he asks curiously.

“A twisted bloody wanker,” I reply sarcastically with a huff. “He skeeved me out.”

“He sounds like exactly the kind of minion Moriarty would have liked. No wonder he was next in line. May not be as smart as Moriarty, but certainly as _sick,_ ” he says with a little _too_ much appreciation. “Anything else? Could you tell when they drugged you? When they snatched you?”

I drain the last of my coffee from the cup, the caffeine already singing in my veins, and set it down on the table next to me. “I remember being at the pub. You...well, not _you_. Were there.” This is fucking embarrassing, but we don’t have time for my shame. Raking my fingers through my hair, I sigh and continue, “Anyway, we got right pissed, and then he put me in a cab for my flat and I left. I don’t remember much after that. I think I...maybe had a few more? I didn’t go right to sleep, I remember…,” I trail off as hazy images pass through my mind.

 _I’ll write to him again,_ I thought, stomping noisily around my flat. _I’m so angry at him. He’s a bastard! I’ll tell him all about my good time with Greg. He’ll be jealous, I know he will. He never liked me giving attention to anyone else. Jealous, jealous, jealous Sherlock._ I snatched out my notebook and searched my desk for a pen, throwing the materials down and plopping into my too hard chair. _Maybe he’ll be so jealous he’ll climb out of his grave and tell me off for it._ _He’d be pissed about getting his coat so dirty, and I’ll laugh in his face about it. Serves you right, you bastard. Serves you right._ As I scribbled, I laughed. It was a sick, crazy laugh, and remembering it now makes my head feel thick and my stomach twist.

“You’re remembering something,” Sherlock comments cautiously, breaking me out of my flashback. “Please, John. I need as many details as you can provide.” He leans forward, face serious and tone dark.

“I think I knew I was drugged.” He doesn’t need to know about my letters, about how they were the only thing tethering me to this planet while he was dead. They’re gone, now, anyway. Best to keep them that way. “Greg was probably drugged too. They must have had someone planted in the pub.” He stares at me curiously, head cocked to the side, before gesturing for me to continue with a flick of his fingers. “I don’t remember when they grabbed me...maybe…”

_Large firm hands grabbing me roughly by the arms, hoisting me out of bed. A blow to the back of my head sends me spinning down to the floor, my face smushed into the carpet. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth--must have bit my tongue. The room is wobbly and I’m weak. No fight in me. Take me, I thought. Just take me._

“It was after I passed out. I never saw the face, but I’m guessing it was Charles going by the brutality of it.” Sherlock frowns, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth before flouncing out of his chair to stalk to the sofa. One large step and he’s standing on the coffee table, his hands in his hair while he whirls about, muttering to himself. I watch for a moment, transfixed by his agitation. His thoughts are moving so quickly, pinging from point to point attempting to draw the lines between them all.

The sound of the post being delivered jars me to the present, so I get to my feet and head to the door. I need a break from his anxious energy, and I owe Mrs. Hudson a hello. As the knob unlatches, Sherlock stops his agitated movements, his head snapping up to stare at me.

“John?” he asks nervously.

I smile at him. “Just grabbing the post.” Stepping out onto the landing, I hear him complain about it being ‘completely unnecessary to add even _more_ pieces of irrelevant and boring mail to the tableful we have already’ and I can’t help but chuckle to myself. Even when he’s being an arse, I find him endearing. I suppose I always have, although now I’m happy to admit that I love the arsehole Sherlock Holmes.

He’s right, of course. A few bills and adverts, nothing more. Mrs. Hudson sees me when I return, and she sweeps me up into a tight, motherly hug.

“Oh, _John!_ I’m so glad you’re alright, dear. Come, let’s have a cuppa. I made your favorite sourdough recipe as soon as I knew you boys were coming home,” she says with a wink, linking her arm in mine and guiding me into her kitchen. “So tell me,” she begins while she slices a piece of bread for me, slathering it with butter. “How’s it going?”

Around mouthfuls, I respond, “Sherlock’s fine. Healing rather well, although he keeps forgetting he’s injured and is careless at times. But, you know, he’s wouldn’t be Sherlock if he didn’t do that.”

She laughs, a tittering, joyous sound I hadn’t realized I missed until now. “Oh, no, John. That’s not what I meant at all. Of course he’s healing fine-- _you’re_ his doctor! I meant...how’s _it_ going?” She waggles her eyebrows at me, a knowing smirk on her lips. “This is an old house, dear. These floors aren’t soundproof, you know.”

The prickle of embarrassment crawls up the back of my neck, covering me in goosebumps. I can feel my cheeks heat and I look away, shoving the rest of the bread in my mouth while my mind goes blank. _Fuck, she heard us?_

“I’m no blushing virgin, John, no need to protect my virtue. You can tell me! Although you’re not usually one to kiss and tell, so I’ll have to just assume it’s going fine and leave it at that. Perhaps next time you can let me know and I’ll do my hoovering to give you boys some privacy, hm?” she adds, patting my arm tenderly.

If I could crawl under the table without seeming like a child, I absolutely would just to hide from her mischievous stare. Coughing, my brain finally comes back online with a suitable way to change the topic of conversation away from the fact that I’m shagging my flatmate. “Mycroft, he told you about what’s going on, yeah?” I ask, reaching for another slice of bread. “Let us answer if anyone rings, and try to stay home as much as you can, okay? They had you as a target once, they may do it again.”

She nods and smiles, glancing at the cabinet next to the stove. “I can protect myself if necessary, John. Don’t you boys worry about me.”

“Mrs. Hudson, you don’t have…” She smiles even wider, her eyes twinkling as she shrugs, feigning innocence.

“How do you think I kept myself safe with all those undesirables around back when my husband was...you know…,” her voice drops to a dramatic stage whisper. “...selling all the cocaine?”

She never fails to impress and simultaneously shock me, and my cheeks hurt from the absurd grin I’m flashing her. “Just, be careful, okay?” I ask, snatching a final piece of bread. “And thank you.” I stand, leaning over to plant a kiss on her cheek. “Best loaf you’ve made.”

“Take the rest, you know I’m watching my waist!”

I laugh and take it with me, heading out of her flat.

“John!” Sherlock shouts from the stairs. “Lestrade! Annoyed, fourth cup of disappointing coffee, less than an hour of sleep and hasn’t changed his clothing in over 24 hours. Has news about Moran’s location. Get the door!”

Moments after the buzzer sounds, Lestrade and I have gone upstairs, I’ve deposited the bread on the counter and the post on the table with the rest of the sprawling pile, and I’m seated across from Sherlock while the Detective Inspector explains his recent findings.

“So, like I told your brother, Moran had help leaving the warehouse. John did a number on him, and they didn’t make it far before getting into a car. We’ve finally gotten the CCTV trail mapped out. They went to some underground medical establishment to get patched up. A few days later the same car left and...well...you aren’t going to believe this,” Lestrade says, rubbing the back of his neck.

Sherlock narrows his eyes, mouth turning down in a pout. “Save the dramatics for a time when John’s life isn’t being threatened by a madman, Graham,” he snaps.

Lestrade sighs. “It’s _Greg,_ you arsehole. Anyway...they went right back to the same warehouse.”

“And from there?” Sherlock asks, popping up in his chair to sit on his heels. “Where did they go from there? Or did you lose them?”

“They didn’t go anywhere from there,” Lestrade replies, tone flat with exhaustion. “I’ve been staking it out myself just to be sure. I didn’t want...well, after what happened the last time we were there...we were careless last time. Not again,” he asserts, hands on his hips and voice full of steel. “I have my best folks there now, watching every exit. I only left when you texted so I could give you the update myself. Knew you wouldn’t believe anyone else.” He pulls a chair over from the table and slumps down into it, knees falling open as he yawns.

“Why would they go right back to--” I stop as Sherlock cuts me off by leaping out of his chair suddenly, making us both start.

“That doesn’t make any sense! Should it make sense? Maybe it does make sense. No, it doesn’t, it _can’t!_ It’s a trick. They aren’t there, something was missed,” he rambles while he paces the flat, hands gesticulating wildly around him and hair flopping around on his head while he spins on his heels.

“Nothing was missed, Sherlock. He’s there, I’m sure of it. Mycroft said he’s assembling a team to head there tonight and and take them out,” Lestrade argues, glancing over his shoulder at Sherlock.

Nodding, I interject, “Between his people and yours, I’m sure you’ll get him. No need for us to--”

“What time should we be there?” Sherlock interrupts suddenly.

“No, absolutely not, Sherlock. Not this time. You’re still on the mend. We don’t need to go rushing off. They’ve got it sorted.” We have been home for barely two days and he’s still got a limp--it’s ridiculous that he’s considering chasing questionable leads. I’m just as eager as he is find some resolution and see this through, but enough is enough. “Let them check it out. He probably _isn’t_ there,” I throw an apologetic face at Greg, who shrugs indifferently. “If he isn’t there, we will go tomorrow and you can deduce all the clues you like. If he _is_ there, they’ll get him. He can’t even walk. They don’t need us. _Please_ ,” I plead. He stares at me throughout my monologue, blinking lazily. His expression is flat, detached. It’s the same look he had when he sent me off so he could meet with Moriarty on the roof. I know this face. It’s the _I’m not giving in_ face. _Nothing gets in the way of the Work, John. Don’t you see?_

Sherlock recognizing my weary, defeated sigh, repeats himself to Lestrade. “What time?”

Throughout our exchange, the Detective Inspector’s head swiveled back and forth between us, the audience to our sparring. “2200,” he responds slowly, eyes flicking to me with an unspoken question. I nod once, huffing noisily through my nose in irritation. “You _will_ follow our lead. Don’t go running off, and don’t be an idiot. We don’t need another life or death situation on our hands,” he instructs firmly. Sherlock rolls his eyes and perches on the arm of his chair with a snort. “I mean it. I don’t particularly like restraining my mates.” He glances at me briefly, apology encompassing his features. I watch as his eyes flit to the kitchen, eyebrows crinkling the skin between them as he frowns. “You two going to open those anytime soon?” He cocks his head to the table, overflowing with post.

Sherlock wave his hand dismissively and continues plotting our evening while I shrug at Greg. “It’s probably mostly adverts and other junk, to be honest. We’ll…,” I glance at Sherlock, who glares my direction. “ _I’ll_ get to it eventually.”

Lestrade’s laughter fills the flat. “You two really _are_ idiots. I wish I could be a fly on the wall when you decide to take a look. I’ll see you tonight, yeah? 2200 hours. I’m headed to get cleaned up. Later.” Shaking his head, he leaves before Sherlock can insult him, the door to the flat shutting abruptly.

We’re both staring at the doorway for a moment, and then we both shift to look at the table. It’s a right mess: papers scattered everywhere, envelopes in piles, adverts and newsprint in haphazard piles. Sherlock wordlessly gapes, then quirks an eyebrow at me, so I get out of my chair and cross the distance slowly, as if expecting the papers to jump up and bite me. Underneath the last pile I added, the corner of a envelope pokes out, my name and the address to my old flat scrawled across it. I shift the paper obscuring it, and...

Oh.

_Oh._

It’s one of my letters to Sherlock.

Peeking underneath, my fears are realized.

It’s not just _one_ of my letters; it’s _all_ of them.

_Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck._

And next to them, another stack with Sherlock’s block print detailing my name and a P.O. Box I’ve never heard of and no return address. I pick the top one up, flashing it to him. My heart is thudding heavily in my chest, palms sweaty and hands shaking.

“Sherlock...what is this?” I ask quietly. He swallows thickly and forces a smile.

“Letters.” He bites his bottom lip. “To you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our story is clicking along! At this point, I'm expecting us to have another 5 or so chapters. Our boys do derail me from time to time, but we are nearing the end for sure. Thanks for your support!


	17. Baker Street, Warehouse: Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gee thanks _Graham._ You mean we have to **deal** with all these feelings at some point!? Ugh, you're so irritating.

**John**.

My contradiction, _my endless enigma_. How is it that I can do nearly everything I put my brain to but I cannot seem to accurately assess and deduce John Watson? Perhaps I am overly clouded by sentiment. It would seem my senses fail me around him, so distracted am I by the overwhelming urges to run my hands over his biceps and push my tongue into his mouth.

I don’t know what he’s thinking or feeling about these letters. I had asked Molly to bring them here, but in the intensity of returning home from the hospital, the memory was nearly deleted entirely. I hadn’t paid much mind to the table, only to snort as John continued adding post to the already irritating pile.

Watching John curiously, I take a few slow steps toward the table. His eyes meet mine, then dart back down to the pile, then back to mine. There’s more than just my letters here, aren’t there? He wants to hide something from--

 _Oh_.

The deductions suddenly crystallize in my mind, boldly announcing themselves as I make my way through them.

He went to therapy after I died.

His therapist has expected him to use writing as a coping skill in the past (a successful trial, though the adrenaline from chasing criminals through London worked much better).

It worked once, so she would have drawn on this history to recommend a similar intervention.

John, being a soldier and a doctor, would have seen fit to follow his orders and trust the professional giving them to him.

_Oh my God._

He wrote letters to me when he thought I was dead.

 _John...my John._ Grieving, angry, devastated and betrayed John sat alone in his awful and boring flat across London, drinking himself to oblivion and writing down every word of hurt and pain that came into his head as a way to _cope_.

He wasn’t coping. He was _killing himself_. **_Because of me_** _._ I hate myself for that, hate the fact that my love for him caused this entire situation. If he hadn’t meant so much to me, Moriarty would never have targeted him. I wouldn’t have needed to fake my own suicide and hide it from him to keep him alive. A catch 22--I died to keep him alive, which in turn nearly killed him. If he had known, he surely would have been killed.

Though I know logically that following this line of reasoning is useless, I’m trapped within the vortex of _what if_ s and _should haves_. Sentiment is loathsome, yet I flock to it like cocaine. It heightens my senses, intensifies the meaning of everything I do and think. My sentiment-fueled guilt led me to write these letters to him, and as he stares at them on the table I struggle with the horror that he may yet turn away from me upon reading them. I was writing to him as a way to finally say the words I’d been hiding from everyone, including myself, for years. He needed to know and I needed to tell him. So I wrote it down in these letters for him; a way to set the record straight between us, to announce to the world that I, Sherlock Holmes, love John Watson. I have always loved him, in the depths of my very DNA--if DNA could love. Impossible, but poetic. An interesting notion. John’s capacity for affecting me so profoundly is impressive, and at times, _terrifying._

As I move next to the table, John shifts uncomfortably and clears his throat while staring, in shock, down at the pile of his letters to me. “Oh, I didn’t realize...I thought Mrs. Hudson would have binned them,” John says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck while he regards the pile on the kitchen table. “I’ll just--” He reaches out to snatch them up, but my reflexes are quicker, my hand resting on top of the pile. His fingertips brush the back of my knuckles and he jerks back, flinching as if burned. I can’t help but wince. “Sherlock, you don’t want to read these,” he warns, glancing sideways at me. His face is twisted, contorted. “I can’t even...I can’t even remember what’s in them, but I know they aren’t--”

“Aren’t what?” I ask, trying to force him to meet my gaze and failing miserably.

“They aren’t _kind_ , Sherlock. They’re...I was angry, Sherlock. I was so angry, and hurt, and I put all of that and more into these letters. It’s...it’s _horrible_. The things I’ve written in these letters, they’re downright horrible and I don’t want you to have to read them. It’s over now, anyway. It doesn’t matter. Let me just--,” he insists, frowning at me with shame and reaching for them.

Keeping my hand flat on the pile, I respond quietly, "I’ll have them all the same.”

John stands still, uncertain, his mouth gaping as he struggles internally. I can see that he wants to snatch the letters up and flee. My stomach twists, awaiting his decision, and I know that even if he did take them I would do everything in my power to get them back. _I know_ they aren’t kind. I know what kind of rage John is capable of, what he works hard at (barely) suppressing on a regular basis. He’s an angry, tightly wound man with specific ideals and morals, and disloyalty is particular abhorrent to him.

 _I betrayed him_.

I deserve to see what that betrayal did to his perception of me.

Eventually the air between us shifts and John’s face softens, his hand coming up to scratch at his beard. With a sigh, he says, “We don’t need to do this right now, hm? Let’s...let’s talk about it later. After we catch the bastard who tried to kill us both and _after_ you buy me dinner and take me out on a proper date, yeah?”

Leaving my hand firmly planted on the pile, I blink and nod once at him. He glances down, nostrils flaring as he breathes slow and deep, his jaw working and pulse pounding in his forehead. He’s clearly still nervous about this, his amygdala flooding his central nervous system with adrenaline. I wish I could tell him how important these letters are to me, how essential to our relationship it is, without sounding like an imbecilic romantic. There are no words that can accurately express the swirl of emotions and thoughts in my head. _Hateful._

He’s just as awkwardly uncomfortable and silent as I am, the both of us stuck in this moment of intensity that feels particularly foreign. Neither of us have ever been skilled at discussing matters of sentiment, and it seems we both become distressingly mute in the face of it between us.

Too many seconds pass and finally he breaks the silence we’re trapped in. Clearing his throat, he looks towards the living room and chuckles. It’s a harsh, unnaturally forced sound, and it grates on my ears. “Pretty ridiculous, you know.”

My lips curl at the statement, the beginnings of a small laugh of relief shaking my core. “Oh?” I ask, a hint of humor in my tone. I let my hand fall to my side, leaving the piles in their places on the table. _Later, then._

He turns back and flashes me a smirk. “I can’t believe we were writing letters to each other, and that apparently _everybody_ knew about it except us. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, the great London detectives who didn’t even notice how much they wanted to get off with one another.” As he finishes, he dissolves into giggles, his shoulders shaking as he looks down at his feet. We laugh together for a few moments before our gaze meets again, both of us grinning like fools.

Closing the gap between us, I rest my hands on his shoulders and smile down at him. “Pretty ridiculous indeed.” I lean down and touch my lips tentatively to his, the barest brush of a kiss. I can feel him smiling against my cheeks as he presses himself against me, his hands resting on my hips. “Tea?” I ask him, resting my chin against his forehead. His heart beats a comfortable rhythm with mine as we stand together, my breath ruffling the top of his hair with each exhalation.

He nods and pulls away. “Mm,” he responds, looking up at me through his golden blonde lashes. The afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows behind him cast shadows on his face, his head surrounded by a warm halo. “Love some,” he murmurs. “Though I don’t suppose you’ll make it.”

Snorting, I whirl away from him to head down the hall. “Two sugars and some milk, John! And get ready, we need to discuss how we’re going to handle tonight!”

As I enter my bedroom, I can hear the sound of the tap as he fills the kettle, and I smile.

* * *

Arriving at the warehouse again brings with it flashes of hazy, frustrating memories: the pile of chocolate wrappers coated in mercury, the flashlights of the Met sergeants as they searched in the rooms nearby, two terrified children huddling in the dark. And then, more recently, John on his knees with a bloodied face, begging to die. My stomach twists, bringing a wave of nausea as I shake my head to clear the thoughts. I need to focus. Moran won’t be here, _obviously_ , but I need to observe as much as possible to figure out where he’s gone. The sooner we find him, the sooner we can put this behind us and move on with our lives. The manic energy that usually fills me during the hunt thrums in my veins, though for entirely different reasons. The chase, at any other time, is the most thrilling part of our adventures, yet today...today I just want it to be over. I want to go home and curl up with John in my bed, running my fingers down his bare chest and burying my face in his neck. I want to smell nothing but his distinct musk, a purely animalistic reminder of his masculinity and the magnetic pull it has on me.

John pauses outside the door, shooting me a questioning look. I nearly ask him whether he brought his gun, but catch myself by biting my tongue nearly hard enough to draw blood. _Of course he didn’t, you idiot._ Instead, I nod and he pulls open the door, revealing my annoying brother, Anthea, and Lestrade. Distinct lack of Molly Hooper--good. I would have throttled my brother soundly if he had insisted on her presence this evening. Mycroft barely pays me a glance, his eyes flicking towards me as casually as if he were noticing some leaves rustling in the wind.

A measured glare at my brother reveals he had two, no, _three_ pastries before he left the office, and he has been getting approximately 2.5 hours of sleep each night since I was released from the hospital. An improvement, as he had barely slept for the week I was admitted. His conscience must have eased a bit, then, with me in John’s care. _Custody_ , he would call it. As if I need a handler. _Irritating._

“Ten?” I ask him, a teasing expression on my face. “Don’t trust me?”

Mycroft purses his lips as he breathes deeply, quelling his annoyance at me. “There are multiple exit points, dear brother. Ten was the least I could provide to ensure adequate coverage.”

“He isn’t here,” I retort with a snarl. “It wouldn’t make any sense. Why return to the same location? They have boltholes throughout London and surrounding countryside; no need to use this one. Clearly they duped you, as if anyone is surprised.”

Lestrade snorts next to me, hiding his laugh, and turns to mutter something unintelligible to John, who chuckles in kind. They both glance back at myself and Mycroft, a few more chuckles escaping them as they share a conspiratorial look with one another. Rolling my eyes at them, I begin surveying the room we’re in--an office of some sort. No evidence of disturbance--empty desk and shelving, save a few crumpled pieces of rubbish here and there from well over a year ago. The warehouse has been inhabited by rats--unsurprising given the leftover sweets materials lurking in the storerooms. Moran and his lackeys must have used other, more discreet areas in the building.

“John, tell me what you remember about the room you were kept in,” I demand loudly, silencing everyone else in the room. Seems they were discussing a plan of sorts for the (imagined) apprehension they intend to carry out? _Unnecessary_.

John coughs and frowns, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sherlock, I told you. It was dark, damp, and disgusting. Like _every other room in here._ I was drugged, remember? Bit tough to recall much in that state,” he comments with a shrug. I throw him a pleading glance and he sighs. “It was...maybe 5 metres by 5 metres? No furniture except a few chairs and a small table off to one side. Lights hung down from the ceiling, single bulbs on a long wire. It was fucking creepy, to be honest. When I…,” he pauses, swallowing thickly. “...woke up, they dragged me out into a larger room. The one where you...well you must remember that room. It was an assembly floor or something. Felt like an aircraft hanger.” His eyes grow distant, lost in memory from that night. In my periphery I see Mycroft raise an eyebrow at me, his hand growing tighter on his forever-present umbrella. Our eyes lock and he looks away, knowing the threat in my gaze.

Turning my attention back to John, I ask, “Did you go through any other areas before entering the main part of the warehouse?”

He shakes his head, clearing the fog from his eyes, and frowns down at the ground while he thinks. A moment passes and he glances back up suddenly. “An office. One in recent use, probably by Moran.” Nodding, I pull out my phone and begin searching for the floor plans for the warehouse, striding out of the office and onto the factory floor, away from the rest of my compatriots. I’m barely limping as my leg continues to heal and the adrenaline numbs any lingering pain. _Fortuitous._ John will chide me later for not being more careful.

“Sherlock!” he calls after me, his footsteps quick on the cement floor behind me as he runs to catch up. The echo from his shoes sounds tinny in the large room, lost in the void beyond our immediate location.

Speaking quietly, I memorize the plans and pass my phone to him. “There are five offices situated around the warehouse main room aside from this one, each with storage closets that could have served as your temporary imprisonment. If we can find the office they’ve been using, I’m sure there will be enough information in them for me to pinpoint their current location. We should split up--Mycroft has two staffers at each exit from the warehouse itself, leaving the rest of us to search the rooms for information.”

John plants his feet and stands up straight, clearly unsure about my plan. “I don’t like the idea of you going alone. You’re still injured,” he says, resting a hand on my forearm.

“There is no threat of danger here. If I fall--unlikely--I can call you. The sooner I get what I need, the sooner we leave,” I insist, peering down at him. “There are over a dozen people here. Even if Moran _was_ here, he’d be outgunned. Admit it, John, and head over there,” I say, pointing off to my right. “There’s an office on the far end of the room.”

He looks in the direction I’m pointing and nods, resigned. “Yeah, all right. But anything suspicious you call me, yeah? Or shout?”

“Of course. I sent the map to Mycroft and Lestrade and told them which ones we’re checking,” I say before twisting away from him with a swirl of my Belstaff. Before I can take two full steps, I hear him call from behind me, and turn to face him.

“Sherlock.” In the dim light of the warehouse, John’s face looks drawn and weathered, his hair dull and more grey than usual. His shoulders are thrown back, his stance attentive yet also relaxed--the soldier, ready for battle. The vein in his forehead pulses beneath his skin, the only evidence of his heightened state. John’s eyes are hooded in shadow, yet I can just make out his pupillary dilation from this distance, eclipsing his irises and turning his eyes nearly black. Water is dripping nearby from a hole in the roof--leftover rain from last night’s storm, still winding its way down into the building. I can barely hear the hushed tones of Mycroft divvying up the remaining offices to Anthea and Lestrade, before Anthea speaks quietly over a walkie to get updates from the staff guarding the exits.

“John?”

He crosses his arms and takes a deep breath, nostrils flaring while he exhales. “The second anything seems off, let me know. I mean it, Sherlock. I can’t…,” he shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment while he swallows around the lump in his throat. His voice is tight with emotion, his face pained. Being here must be triggering his sympathetic nervous system, flooding his head with intrusive memories and his body with excess adrenaline. I can see it in the tight cords of his neck muscle, pulled taut in preparation for unseen threats. We need to finish what we’re doing and leave as soon as possible, that much is clear.

“I know,” I reply, forcing a small smile. “Meet back here in fifteen.” He presses his lips into a tight line before he hums and strides off in the direction I indicated, steps strong and purposeful.

My phone buzzes in my hand just as I’m about to start walking to the office on the opposite side of the room.

**> >Incoming Message**

**> >Mycroft**

**> >Don’t be smart.**

Groaning, I shove my hands into the pockets of my coat and head into the black with only the sound of the dripping rainwater and the dim light of the crescent moon to accompany me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still projecting another four chapters or so until the end of this epic story! We'll see though. I honestly suck at estimating length, and things tend to go longer than I expect. Thanks again for your support and readership!!


	18. Warehouse: John, Sherlock

**< Mycroft Holmes>**

**22:15: All clear. Status?**

**< John Watson>**

**22:16: About to enter the office. Heard from Sherlock?**

**< Mycroft Holmes>**

**22:16: No.**

**22:17: Anthea’s clear.**

**< John Watson>**

**22:19: This office was in use recently. What about Greg?**

**< Mycroft Holmes>**

**22:19: No word from the Detective Inspector. Elucidate “in use.”**

**< John Watson is typing>**

**22:21: John?**

**< John Watson>**

**22:22: Blimey, obvious you prats are related. Papers around, fast food wrappers, empty bottles of booze-- “in use” like I said.**

**22:23: Give us a second, just sifting through these papers.**

**22:25: Did you head this way? Just heard footsteps.**

**< Mycroft Holmes>**

**22:25: Not us. Awaiting Lestrade’s “all clear.” Still no word from Sherlock, I take it?**

**< John Watson>**

**22:26: Not yet, although that could have been him. We were going to meet back in 15, but knowing him he found nothing and got bored. I’ll text him.**

**< Mycroft Holmes>**

**22:27: Lestrade is all clear. Heading that way.**

**< John Watson>**

**22:29: Gotcha. No word from Sherlock yet. I’ll keep you posted. Going to check the storage closet to see if it’s where they kept me last time.**

**< Mycroft Holmes>**

**22:30: Have caution, John. Sherlock may not believe Moran is here, but everything we have indicates he is.**

**< John Watson>**

**22:30: I AM an ex-soldier, Mycroft, remember? Have some faith.**

**< Mycroft Holmes>**

**22:31: Always, Captain Watson.**

 

 _Captain_ Watson. **Hmph**. _Fine_ , Mycroft.

This office is a pigsty--rubbish everywhere, filthy water collecting in puddles wherever the floor is cracked or uneven, rust on most of the metal surfaces. In the corner, there’s a pile of soiled clothing and gauzes, stained brown from dried blood. Moran _was_ here, at some point anyway. Well, or someone else who was beaten to a pulp. Some tiny part of me is ashamed that I’ve done this to another human; being a doctor, I took an oath to do no harm. Yet most of me knows it was a necessary evil, and that he deserved it for the pain and torture he put us through.

I also know that _I will_ finish the job if needed.

What would Sherlock say about that? He’s a pragmatist--surely he’d realize that Moran’s death would be the most efficient way to solve our problem. Charles is hardly invested enough to pick up the mantle and run a “consulting criminal” organization--he’ll flee to the next villain looking for a grunt, to the next opportunity to carry out his sadistic fetishes.

Sherlock was _surprised_ , though, that I shot Moran. The look he gave me; it wasn’t what I was expecting. I can’t quite place what he was feeling, but he definitely seemed... **off**. Odd, considering I have **killed** to save his life, and he never seemed to mind. I can’t shake the feeling that he believes himself responsible for what’s happened. I wish we were both better at talking about... _all this._

Focus, Watson. **Battlefield**. Need to pay attention. Not the time for _sentiment_ , as Sherlock would say.

As I open the door to the storeroom, the metallic, acrid smell of old blood immediately fills my nostrils, mingling with the chemical bitterness of cleaning solutions. The combination assaults my eyes, making them water while my gag reflex kicks in. I fight to suppress the urge to retch, swallowing down my excess saliva. Holding my sleeve over my mouth and nose, I notice another pile of used bandages in the corner near a grime-covered table with cheap first aid supplies and a bottle of antiseptic. There are blood stains on the floor throughout the room, along with dark brown-red spatters on the wall. Eerie shadows flit across the wall as the lights hanging from the ceiling sway slowly back and forth. This must have been where they patched up Moran. Glancing around the room, I realize that I _know_ this place.

_I can’t wait to string up your posh, gorgeous genius and beat him until he begs to die. I’ll whip him, I’ll cut him, I’ll burn him, and finally, I’ll kill him._

The pain as it bloomed through my face when he hit me, my cheekbone cracked and my nose instantly swollen and bleeding. The taste of snot and blood and tears, salty and bitter and coppery as it filled my mouth, coating my tongue and making me nauseous.

Moran in front of me, leaning his lanky frame forward, elbows on his knees as he sat in an unstable metal chair, his light blue, _crazy_ eyes glinting in the incandescence from above. His sandy blonde hair was disheveled, large chunks sticking in all directions as watched me curiously, his head cocked to the side. He was totally different from Moriarty in every way--where Moriarty always looked tailored and posh, Moran seemed to be opposite, both in appearance and personality.

The memories are flooding back to me as I relive those moments, forever burned into my brain by the adrenaline of combined fear and rage. Charles was nearby after he nearly knocked me senseless, slugging back water with disgusting slurps, the droplets streaming down his chin and soaking the collar of his shirt. Moran, with a sadistic grin on his too-thin lips while he watched me struggle on the floor in front of him, asking me ridiculous questions about Sherlock…

 _Sherlock_.

My fake Sherlock was there, too, watching from over Moran’s shoulder. His face was sad, pitying, as he watched me bleed and groan in pain from what felt like everywhere on my body. I felt so sick, so _pathetic_ , as he looked me over with knitted eyebrows and a downturned mouth.

In that moment if Moran had killed me I would have _thanked him_ for having mercy on me.

I don’t even want to think about what that would have done to Sherlock. _My Sherlock_ , my very much alive and in love with me Sherlock.

Taking a deep breath through my sleeve, I turn to leave the storeroom. To me, there isn’t much to see in here. I’m sure my partner will want to look it over, but it’s the office that has the most information in my opinion. I’ll text him to let him know that this is the one, and then I’ll wait while he gathers what he needs. What I wouldn’t give for a couple fingers of single malt scotch when we get home…

No. I’ll find another way to unwind. _Perhaps_ with my fingernails cutting crescent moons into the skin stretched over Sherlock’s shoulder blades while he takes me in hand and sucks hickies onto my neck, our panting and moaning the only sounds filling his quiet bedroom.

A barely-there smile hovering around my lips at the thought, I pull out my phone and shoot a quick text to Sherlock while walking back into the office.

**> >Send Message**

**> >Sherlock**

**> >It’s here, I found it. Not much to see, though I’m sure you’ll find some insignificant hair or piece of dust and know the entire story. Come figure it out so we can get out of here.**

**> >I have...ideas about what I’d like to do when we get home, if you’re up for it.**

The familiar chime of Sherlock’s text alert sounds nearly instantly, drawing my attention away from my phone. “I knew you’d get bored and wouldn’t wait to rendezvous…,” I say, dropping my mobile into my jacket pocket and looking up.

“So nice to see you again, _John_.”

I can feel the blood draining from my face as my gaze falls on Moran, sitting in a chair and digging small holes into the top of the desk with the 30cm hunting knife he’s holding. His lips curl into a half smile, half sneer as he flicks another chunk of wood out of the desk and across the room towards me. My heart starts pounding in my ears as I stare, unblinking, at his bruised and broken form. Most of his skin is colored greenish yellow, and his leg is casted poorly with metal splints to keep his knee straight. His clothing is bunched and dried in several places with dark brown stains, the fabric stiff and disgusting. Further assessment reveals he’s on some form of high potency pain medication, eyes half lidded and glassy and his tongue thick and words slurred. _Good,_ I think. _It’ll slow down his reaction time._

Straightening my shoulders, I throw my chin out in a display of confidence and respond curtly, “Doctor Watson, please. We aren’t familiar enough for first names, Moran.”

He chuckles harshly and quirks an eyebrow at me. “No? I rather felt we got to know each other quite well in our time together, _Jooohnnn_ ,” he drawls, licking his chapped lips.

Again I hear the chime of Sherlock’s phone and I look in the direction I heard it: outside the office door. Moran follows my eyes and smirks as it goes off a second time.

 _Idiot!_ I yell in my head at Sherlock. _Silence your phone goddammit!_

“I assume you’re not here alone. Probably impossible to move much on your own, hm?” I taunt, willing him to refocus on me. Sherlock must know we’re in here and he’s waiting for our backup before they burst in, ready to make the arrest. _Before_ , he never would’ve waited, and it must be driving him mad to do it now.

Moran chuckles, shaking his head. “No, no, of course not. I’ve got my own little helper here, just as you have yours.”

I blink a few times at him before replying, confused, “My helper? I haven’t got a helper here. You aren’t making any sense, and your injuries must need proper medical attention. If you let me bring you into custody we can get that looked at.” I gesture with my head towards his leg. He waves his hand dismissively, giggling to himself.

“John, _John_ , **John**. Don’t be daft,” he chides with a smirk. “I must admit, your helper is much better looking than mine!” At that, Sherlock enters the room but something’s...wrong. He’s gagged, a cloth pulled tightly across his mouth, drawing his lips up into a bizarre grin. His eyes are wild, _feral_ , as they dart around the room to observe as much as possible before they land on mine. A chill runs down my spin, shaking me to my core while we stare at one another in a vain attempt to communicate telepathically. He stumbles forward, nearly falling to his knees but saved at the last moment by a yank on his wrists by Charles. Sherlock’s face contorts into a grimace as his shoulders are wrenched unnaturally, his knees buckling beneath him in pain.

“Stop! You’ll pull his arms out of their sockets, you arsehole!” I shout at Charles, every ounce of rage and fear constricting my voice. Sherlock’s assailant relents, choosing instead to release and knock him down, his face slapping against the concrete. I hear the sharp huff of air through his nostrils as he pauses, willing his body to be still.

“Ah, your _helper_ . What a _pathetic_ sight he is when he can’t run that obnoxious mouth of his, spinning that ridiculous coat and towering over the rest of us. Come now, John, must you rely on such a poor excuse?” Moran asks with a sneer, leaning forward in his seat to glare at Sherlock.

Swallowing against my too-tight throat, I reply, “Poor excuse? For what?” My heart is pounding into my ribs and echoing in my ears, an uncomfortable heat prickling up the back of my neck as I watch Sherlock lay motionless on the floor between myself and Moran. _What did they do to him?_ Why isn’t he moving at all? Is he too injured, or is he waiting for the right moment? Without seeing his eyes it’s difficult to determine what he wants me to do, and he can’t bark out warnings or code words with that bloody gag in his mouth. _Dammit, Sherlock! I told you we shouldn’t split up!_

“ ** _For a hit_**. He gives you _some_ of what you need--violence, an outlet for all that anger--but it isn’t the good stuff. Nah, he can’t give you what you truly want, what you _need_ ,” Moran explains with an exaggerated yawn. “Jim always said Sherlock was on the side of the angels, and he assumed it was _you_ who kept him there. But no, no, that’s not it at all, is it? _He’s_ the one who keeps _you_ there. The ex-soldier who took an oath to become a doctor as a way to balance out how much you _love_ hurting people. Look at him, John. _Really_ **_look at him_** , sniveling on the wet cement like the child he is. You can’t possibly keep taking care of him, can you? He’s _inadequate_ , John. He’ll never be enough for you, and you know it. He’ll always disappoint you, make you feel unimportant when in reality, he’s the one who can never meet all your needs. You _like_ hurting people. You _need_ to cause pain and suffering, and he will _never_ let you do it the way you want to. Every time you lay your hands on someone, the quaking inside stops, doesn’t it? When your fist connects with flesh and the bones crack beneath your hands, you can’t help but grin. I saw it when you beat me last week, the _grin_. The _delight!_ You love being in control of someone else’s body like that, _don’t you_? The power to harm and the power to heal, wrapped up in one gorgeous, broken man. You deserve better than this, John.”

Taking a deep breath, I reply, “I…”

 

Sherlock

“You _belong_ to me,” Moran continues in a sing-song voice, cutting John off with a reference to his earlier letter. In my periphery, I see John plant his feet shoulder-width apart; natural defensive posturing. Obviously he knows Moran is playing with him, attempting to manipulate him into giving himself up to them. John is smarter and stronger than that, though. A few well-placed words aren’t enough to shake his foundation.

Right?

No, they won’t be. _Can’t_ be. John is stalwart. He’s loyal. He’s always stayed with me, even when I’ve put him through hell. Moran won’t sway him, it’s not possible. Nothing makes John give up...

_“They aren’t kind, Sherlock. They’re...I was angry, Sherlock. I was so angry, and hurt, and I put all of that and more into these letters. It’s...it’s horrible. The things I’ve written in these letters, they’re downright horrible and I don’t want you to have to read them.”_

No. **No.** _Stop it, brain._ Stop conjuring up images of him like that. I know he’s been hurt, that he’s felt broken and at times shattered by what happened, but that doesn’t mean that Moran is right. _John’s not like that._ I’m the sociopath. I’m the one who hurts people, not John. He may be an adrenaline addict, but he doesn’t need…

“ _John_. You know I’m right. Didn’t Mycroft notice it, from the beginning? Sherlock definitely noticed it. You _need_ to be in battle. Who _needs_ to be in battle, John?” Moran asks condescendingly. I hear John shift uncomfortably, maintaining his silence. “ _Soldier_. And what’s a soldier’s job? _Hm_ ? Come on, **John** , you _know_ what it is,” he croons.

Though I cannot see him clearly, I can feel John’s rage through the flex in his calves. He’s refusing to engage. I’ve seen this exact posturing many times before, usually when I’ve made a particularly _accurate_ deduction about a vulnerability of his, ignoring how emotionally sensitive he might be about it and forging on ahead until he’s literally quivering with raw fury.

_Oh, no._

No, no, no, no... **no**.

“Charles, give John some motivation to be polite, will you?” I hear before pain shoots through my side, electricity sparking up into my ribcage and constricting my lungs. Groaning, I pull my legs up and curl into the fetal position, willing the throb in my lower back to subside.

“A soldier’s job is to follow orders,” John responds, his words clipped.

“Wrong. A soldier’s job is to **kill** , _you know that._ Don’t rationalize it into something more socially acceptable. You don’t have to do that _here_ , you see? With us, you can be who you _truly_ are,” Moran beseeches. “Let us help you lose this last bit of dead weight, shall we?”

Another rush of crippling pain shoots into my back, arcing down my legs with a horrific spasm. I’m gasping, choking on my own saliva as Charles kicks me a few more times in my lower back, the point of his shoe colliding with my kidneys. He pauses to laugh with Moran as a guttural, pained cry erupts from me, ending on a sob as I choke back tears.

While I brace for another blow, there’s a flurry of movement above me accompanied by quick splashes in the nearby puddles. A body slams to the cement next to me with a grumble and a few twitches before going still. I can feel a warm ooze of what I assume is blood as it soaks through the leg of my trousers near my knee.There’s an unintelligible shout, sounds of continued scuffle, and a large hunting knife clatters to the floor near my face, barely missing my cheekbone. In the reflection of the blade I can see two dark shadows behind me, grappling with each other before one of them lands a few hard blows and the other collapses backwards with a yelp. I can hear two people panting as something metallic clangs to the floor, and then there’s the sickening sound of a bone crunching, punctuated by an animalistic scream. With a few lingering whimpers, the fight resolves, and I pray to _any_ higher power that might exist that my John--my Captain and doctor and best friend and _lover_ \--is the winner.

If he isn’t, then I pray my death is swift. My life without John would be pointless. How **unfair** for us to have such little time together before being driven apart again!

Pressing my eyes shut as a wave of pain shudders through my body, I take a deep breath and wait while I hear the sound of heavy boots clomping near my head. Strong hands wrap around my shoulders, rolling me off my stomach and heaving me up while familiar blue-gold eyes peer into my own, soft and tired.

“Come on, then. Let’s get you up. This disgusting water is probably ruining your silk shirt, yeah?”

Collapsing boneless into John’s arms, I inhale his perfect scent with shuttered eyes, allowing him to pull me upright while I lean against him, finally feeling the warmth of safety encompass me. A murmured hum of approval escapes my lips as he snips the zip ties holding my arms behind my back and I curl myself around him, shutting out reality as I ground myself on the sound of his breath in his chest and the strength in his frame. He chuckles, wrapping his arms around my shoulders and planting a gentle kiss in my hair.

“Sentiment?” John jokes, a smile in his tone at our reversed roles.

Squeezing him tighter, I nod vigorously. “Sentiment.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have a LOT of questions right now, don't worry! All will be made clear. **I promise!**


	19. Warehouse/Cab: Sherlock

“If you’re not going to get checked out then I’m not going to either, Mycroft.”

“Sherlock, don’t be a child,” my brother replies nastily, his hands on his hips and a scowl on his freshly bruised face. A dribble of blood courses slowly down from the gash on his cheekbone, its trail interrupted by the wrinkles around his pursed lips. If I was less irritable from exhaustion and the after-effects of emotional duress, I might feel badly for him. As it stands, I just need him to _leave me alone._

Snarling at him, I argue, “I’m not being a child. I was _barely_ assaulted, and I’ve had more than enough time in hospital in the past two weeks. Your injuries are far worse than mine.” Beside me, John huffs a silent chuckle, either amusement at my comment or incredulity at our bickering. Regardless, the suppressed laugh makes me fight against a smile, my chin twitching.

Mycroft glares, planting his feet in front of me. “And I have private medical staff who will attend to them once I return to my office,” he asserts, tugging a handkerchief out of his waistcoat and dabbing at the blood near his mouth. He glances at it briefly, his nose wrinkling in disgust, before he folds it over the damp spot and tucks it back into his pocket.

I push past him, knocking our shoulders together. “John is at least as skilled as five of your pathetic medical staff.” He grabs at my elbow, stopping me in my tracks. Yanking away with enough force to nearly unbalance me, I glower and demand, “ **Let. Me. Go!** ” Shoving at him, I gain my freedom and hop away from him, nearly falling back into John, who steadies me with two strong hands on my shoulders. Anthea steps closer, her posture defensive as she prepares to move between us and defend my brother, her hand on his forearm. Mycroft’s eyes flick to her briefly before he lets out an exaggerated, long-suffering sigh and cocks his head to the side, glancing past me at John.

“Honestly, Doctor Watson, I don’t know _how_ you tolerate him,” he comments with a raised eyebrow, his tone dripping with venom.

“You’re just glad I have a _handler_ now. More time for you to meddle in other countries’ governmental affairs,” I snipe.

Stepping between us, John raises his hands in supplication. “Alright, boys, can we drop it and go our respective ways? Thankfully we shouldn’t have to see each other again for at least 6 months.”

“Let’s make it a year, shall we?” I add under my breath as I turn to walk away, my damp coat thudding heavily against my calves.

As I approach the door, Lestrade comes into view, his hand clutching his torso tightly as if attempting to hold his chest together. He tests out a deep breath and winces, confirming his internal hypothesis of at least 2 broken ribs. He sees John and I and raises his free hand, trying to stop us. “Wait, I need statements…,” he says with considerable effort. His voice is hoarse, and the beginning bloom of broken blood vessels peppers his throat in the pattern of fingertips.

The early stages of the fight between Charles and our companions is crystallizing--Anthea was probably knocked out first, caught totally unawares, considering her distinct lack of visible injuries and the glazed over appearance of her eyes. Mild to moderate concussion, some nausea and dizziness for a day or two and she’ll be back to herself. Then, Lestrade was the next target, and he nearly lost consciousness after he was overpowered and strangled. Mycroft must have happened upon them and fought off Charles, taking a blow to the face in the process as he saved Lestrade’s life. Of course neither of them were a match for the vicious brutality of Moran’s subordinate, who quickly trounced them both and tied them up together against a support pole before he surprised me as I left the empty office I had been investigating.

Shaking my head with annoyance at my incorrect assessments of Moran’s location, I brush past Lestrade, waving my hand towards him dismissively. “ _Tomorrow_. We’ll come down,” I reply with false promise.

Calling my bluff, he follows me and insists, “No, you won’t.”

 _Leave me alone, Lestrade._ Grasping at anything that might get him off my case, I throw out, “We’ll text our statements to you.” Behind me, John lets out a breathy laugh as his stride picks up, trying to keep pace with me as we near the exit of the warehouse.

Lestrade groans, standing still and rubbing a hand over his face. “You know that doesn’t count,” he nearly whines, frustration and exhaustion catching up with him.

Whirling to face him, I respond, “Well, _it_ _should_. We live in a technologically advanced society. New Scotland Yard should really consider catching up.” Looking him over, I know it’s duty alone that is pushing his harassment-- he’s just as tired and burnt out as everyone else here. He needs to go home. He’ll appreciate my petulance in the morning. _You’re welcome, Detective Inspector._

He lets out a huge yawn and drops his hands to his hips, adopting his best authoritative pose. “If I don’t see you by noon, I’ll come to Baker Street myself. Have to explain how all _this_ happened. I’ve got two dead citizens on my hands, and no one wants to put John in jail.” I hear John mutter something along the lines of ‘ _Like to see you try’_ before Lestrade adds, sarcastically, “And something has to go on the death certificate.”

Pulling out my phone to check the time, I reply, “Isn’t that what autopsies are for?” before striding away. _2:37am. Hope we can get a cab._

“Sherlock,” I hear behind me.

“Good morning, Gavin!” I shout, using both palms to thrust open the warehouse door and step out into the cool, clear twilight. The air is brisk, immediately condensing the exhalations from my mouth into fat clouds as I look up and down the street, orienting myself to my surroundings.

“Sherlock!” I hear one last time before the door slams behind John, who makes his way up next to me, his arm brushing against mine as he stands close. The back of his hand, warm despite the cold February temperatures, touches me, his fingers gently lacing themselves between mine, sharing their heat. Softening my shoulders, I allow myself to lean on him slightly.

“You know full well his name is Greg,” he murmurs, tilting his head to rest on the side of my shoulder.

Scanning the road for cabs, I smile, enjoying this soft moment between us and hoping there aren’t any idiots nearby who will interrupt us. “Of course I do. This is more fun,” I comment into his hair, inhaling his complex scent.

John shakes his head gently, no doubt considering my childish behavior. “Greg’s a good man,” he adds, clearing his throat. His voice is tight, nearly choked up with emotion as his fingers twine further with mine. The adrenaline fueled shock of the past hour is wearing off, replaced with the intensity of the events and the overwhelming emotional impact they had on us all. Considering John’s recent trauma, this evening must have been particularly challenging for him.

“Hm,” I respond, waving my free hand at a cab driving by. Seeing it, John puts space between us, yanking the bottom of his jacket down and straightening his shoulders. We climb into the cab, give the driver the address, and settle into the leather of the backseat together.

For several moments, the air around us is filled with the sounds of the car engine, its tires on road, and the nearly indiscernible talk radio playing in the front seat. I lean over, letting my head drop onto John’s shoulder, and focus on silencing the swirl of ruminative thoughts about the evening, each of them full of shame and regret for how things occurred. _Not now_ , I tell myself. _It’s over. I should be happy._

How could I be happy? My errors led to life-threatening attacks on people I care about and forced John into a position where the only choice was to kill two men. My arrogance brought us to that moment--me being trapped facedown on the filthy floor while John had to listen to that arsehole Moran make wildly inaccurate accusations about him and his motivations. His _needs_. Moran worked at casting doubt on our relationship, wanting John for himself.

“Sherlock,” John murmurs, his hand coming up to card through my curls. His tone sounds as lost and confused as I feel. “Can we talk?”

Nodding, I pull myself upright and turn on the seat to face him. “Yes?”

John sighs, his eyes tired. “Those things Moran said…,” he trails off, frowning. He searches for the words he wants, biting the inside of his bottom lip and looking out the window. “I don’t...I mean, it’s...he was--”

Placing a hand on his knee, I interrupt, “John, he was a lunatic. Hardly reliable as a source of information.” He shakes his head, though at me or himself remains unclear.

“No, Sherlock. I... _this is important_. I need to say this out loud. I’m tired of hiding these words from you. I...I need you to know,” he insists, facing me. Silent tears stream down his face, illuminated in the rhythmic flashes of streetlamps as the car continues through the busy London roads. In his weariness, John seems so much older, the bags under his eyes pronounced and the wrinkles in his forehead casting shadows on his face. I find myself longing to hold his head in my lap and draw soothing circles on his scalp until he feels calm, but now is not the time. There’s a determination in his face that keeps me still and quiet, giving him this moment, the space to say what he needs to.

He clears his throat and continues, “Some of what he said about me is _true_ , Sherlock. Your brother saw it in me the first time he met me, noticed how my tremors stop when I’m in danger. _You_ knew, Sherlock. **You** **_knew_**. You solved my limp in one night by making me chase after a cab with you. _I’m not normal_ , Sherlock. I like--no, I _crave_ \--the adrenaline.”

“Plenty of people are adrenaline addicts, John,” I counter quietly. He _believes_ what Moran was saying about him. He feels like he's the same as that monster, and I **know** he's so much better than that.

Shaking his head, he refutes, “No, it’s not just that. I _do_ like being in control, of myself and of others. Of situations. Of _everything_ , Sherlock. It’s why I was _so angry_...why I _am_ so angry about what you did. It was something I not only didn’t control, but I didn’t even _know_ about it. If I'm in control, I feel safe... but I also crave danger. It doesn't make any sense. _I_ _don't make any sense_. This...it's so confusing and hard to explain.” He drops his head into his hands, fingers scraping along his scalp a few times before he throws his head back again in frustration with himself.

“John,” I begin, reaching towards him but letting my hand fall short as he shoots a tense glare my way. His eyes follow my hand, brows furrowing as he stares at it on the seat.

“I don’t even feel guilty about what I did tonight,” he says, voice distant.

“Why should you?” I ask, incredulous. “They were hardly what you’d call ‘good’ people.”

His gaze meets mine, eyes steely as his hand curls into a fist on his thigh. “Sherlock, it doesn’t matter. I’m supposed to be a doctor. They were _people_ and I killed them with my bare hands. I snapped Charles’s neck after breaking his arm and strangled the life out of Moran. He stared into my face, tears streaming down his cheeks and his mouth hanging open while blood vessels burst in his eyes and his skin turned blue. I crushed his windpipe and esophagus _with these_ ,” he holds up his hands, looking at them as if they don’t belong to his body, “and I took an oath to use them to heal, not harm.”

“You’ve killed plenty of people, John, and none of them were worth this existential crisis, especially not these two.”

“Don’t you see, Sherlock? I confirmed what he said. **_I am just like him_**. I was calm, _happy_ , even, when Charles dropped limp to the floor, blood oozing out of his broken arm where the bone pushed through the skin. His head was at such an unnatural angle and I didn’t even flinch. No part of me felt any remorse as Moran struggled against me before collapsing back into his chair.”

“Baker street, lads,” the driver says loudly, startling us out of our conversation. Neither of us had noticed that the car had stopped, and it takes us a moment to break free from the tension and exit the cab. John starts walking toward the flat, pausing a few steps away to turn back and stare awkwardly at me as I pay the driver. Catching his eye, I force my lips up into a false smile, my heart thudding uncomfortably in my chest. _This is ridiculous_. _It’s_ **_just_ ** _John. Calm down, idiot._

He nods, shoving his hands roughly in his pockets, and closes the distance to the door, cold fingers fumbling with his key. My feet are frozen, unable to move as I watch him disappear into the dark doorway and consider what awaits us upstairs. Another panic attack? More inaccurate ramblings about morality? Will he finally rage at me for leaving him?

Or perhaps we will keep avoiding what needs to be said, which might be the worst outcome of all. There are moments in life where one knows that jumping headfirst into a situation, no matter how stressful or chaotic, is the only way to successfully traverse the storm. _Like ripping off a band-aid_ , my brother would say. In this instance, he may be right.

“Coming?” John calls, leaning through the doorway towards me. Summoning my courage from God knows where, I stride inside and follow him up the stairs. We remove our jackets, hanging them by the door, and I consider how to say what I _know_ needs to be said. John, obviously still tense, clenches his hands into fists and waits, working through his own thoughts and searching for something coherent.

“John, I--”

“Sherlock--”

We both stop and stare, a nervous giggle escaping his lips at our absurdity. Gesturing for him to proceed, I focus on my breath while he inhales, continuing, “We’re both tired. Maybe we should go to bed. I don’t have to keep going over my own fucked up head with you.”

“No,” I reply flatly, walking over toward the kitchen table. “John...I don’t agree with you.”

He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “About?”

“ _Any of it._ You keep blaming yourself for everything that’s happened, and I don’t agree. It’s _not_ your fault. You didn’t ask for _any_ of this. You’ve had a lifetime of trauma. And then I did...what I did. You need to process _some_ of it to be able to move on. I can’t fix what happened before, or bring those bastards back to life. I can't go back and protect you from any of it, even though that's all I want to do. Worst of all, I can’t change what I _did_ to you. But, I _can_ let you tell me how it made you feel. I can listen. I _want_ to listen. _Tell me, John_. Read me your letters. Tell me how it hurt you. Maybe after you tell me, we can put all of this behind us and start over. We don’t have to hide from each other anymore, once this is done. I want you to stop blaming yourself for what’s happened and finally begin to heal,” I plead, holding his letters in outstretched arms between us.

Blinking through tears, John considers my offering, his chin trembling and face serious. I can see his hesitation, his fear that once I know the contents of these letters that I’ll crumble and leave. That he’ll tell me how he really felt--no, how he really _feels_ \--and I won’t be able to stand it.

This _needs_ to happen, but not for me. **I want him to have this.**

“ _Please_ ,” I beg, my eyes prickling and heart heavy.

With pursed lips and knitted eyebrows, he nods slowly and takes the letters into his hands. He stares at them, then gives them a slow pat and meets my gaze. “Yeah....okay. Okay, Sherlock,” he croaks, shaking his head with embarrassment at the sound. Clearing his throat, he adds, “Will you read me yours?”

“Of course, John. _Anything for_ **_you_**.”


	20. Epilogue

_From the journal of Doctor John Hamish Watson..._

1 March 2012

I read him every terrible, agony-filled word. Every moment of insanity and rage. We organized the letters by postage date, and read them in order to each other, alternating as needed. Neither of us slept that night, preferring instead to see it through to the end. My heart ached when Sherlock read his letters to me, his rich baritone becoming rough with overuse and exhaustion the later it got. When he writes, it sounds like poetry--an odd contrast to the harsh and vulgar language I used. There was such _intensity_ in his letters, _emotions_ I never thought he was capable of feeling, let alone expressing. It reminded me of antique messages sent between lovers in the 1800s, for some reason. I’m sure he’d scoff at that idea...but be secretly pleased. He’s funny like that.

We paused for coffee and toast with blueberry jam, sitting in our chairs with our respective piles on the tables next to us as a reminder of our goal. Once we finished our breakfast, I asked him if he’d like a shower. He shook his head, his gaze falling on the next open letter on my pile.

 _‘Everything hurts, Sherlock_ ,’ I read to him, voice catching as I said his name and relived the moment I wrote it, curled into a ball on the bed in a johnny with an ankle bracelet showing my name and date of birth.

_He cried._

Sherlock cried fat, silent tears, sniffling every few seconds as I read the first of my letters to him from the psychiatric hospital.

I cried too. It felt...good. Relief, I think. I haven’t cried like that since I was alone in a tent in Afghanistan after losing half our battalion and taking a bullet to the shoulder.

 _‘You have_ **_never_ ** _been a burden to me, John,’_ he interrupted me toward the end of that letter, his voice hard.

 _‘I know that_ **_now_** _,’_ I told him with a sad smile. My chest was so tight while I shared my pain with him, reopening each and every wound before cleaning it, re-dressing it, and leaving it to heal **properly** this time. As every good doctor should.

As the clock ticked closer to noon, I kept expecting Greg to show up, tiredly demanding statements. He never did. Come to think of it, I didn’t hear a peep from Mrs. Hudson, either. It seemed like we existed in a self-contained bubble that day. We had all the time and space we needed to share how lost we felt when we were apart.

I hated him for leaving me, but only because it made me realize how much I loved him and how much regret I had for never telling him. It forced me to look at the terrifying shadow that had been following me since that first day in Bart’s lab and acknowledge exactly what it meant to me.

 _‘When did you know, Sherlock?’_ I asked him after we sat in silence for a while following the last letter.

 _‘I’ve always known,’_ he replied. _‘Weren’t you listening?’_ He shuffled through his letters and found the one he wrote me right before I tried to kill myself, re-reading a section toward the end. _‘I think I always knew I was waiting for you, somewhere deep inside my bones.’_

I crossed the distance between us and took his face in my hands, my thumbs brushing over those ridiculous cheekbones while I smiled down at him. _‘I think I was waiting for you too,’_ I replied. In retrospect, it sounded hopelessly romantic. Then again, I **am** a hopeless romantic. I guess he likes that about me.

We kissed, long and slow and deep, and his fingers pressed into my hip bones while he pulled me close. By the time we found the bed, the sun was casting long shadows through the windows as it set and we were exhausted, yet our bodies were humming with need. He pressed sensual kisses into my skin, from my neck to my hip, before taking me in his wicked mouth and sucking me down his throat until I was writhing on the bed and calling out his name. After I recovered, I did the same for him, his fingers scraping my scalp while his back arched and his body spasmed.

I don’t think I’ve ever slept that soundly in my life.

Dawn broke, sending golden beams through the window of his our bedroom, and I woke with one thought.

Renewal.

\--JHW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG!!! I cannot believe that this journey is actually complete.  
> Thank you EVERYONE who read and left a kudos or comment--even those who have been secretly following--THANK YOU for your readership and support. I encourage you to leave me a note here or send me a message on Tumblr (@Arcwin1) if you have thoughts about the story.
> 
> Beta_Jawn and SmearedBlackInk--you two have been SO supportive and helpful throughout this story, whether cheerleading me through the really challenging bits or fangirling over the exciting parts. Thank you both for your love. It would have been nearly impossible without you two along the way.
> 
> This story has been my passion for several months, and I never expected or intended it to turn out like this but I am so thrilled with it. It's been a wild ride, and I feel really lucky to have had the time, muse, and support to do it. 
> 
> I feel like this is an acceptance speech. LOL!
> 
> Okay, last thing: Beta_Jawn has some new art she is finishing up for this story, and I will post it as new chapters when it's done so you can all come see it! She is working on a beautiful "cover" for the story, a stunning smut piece, and some fluff. I'm so excited to see them done!!
> 
> Again, thank you. <3 Fans are what make fanfiction happen.

**Author's Note:**

> I _thrive_ on comments, so please leave some! I appreciate each and every one of them and cannot thank you enough for taking a couple of minutes to leave them or a kudos.  <3


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